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^ •TCe'Seasi'de LibrarV7Pocke7Ediuoir, Issiie.J TiTweekly By subscription ^^0 per anmiiiT;” 

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THE HOLY ROSE. 


BY 


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NEW YORK: 

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AVALTER BESANT’S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. 

PRIC», 

97 All in a Garden Fair 

30 

187 Uncle Jack 

. 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune . 

10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant 

and Rice 

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280 Dorothy Foster .... 


824 In Luck at Last . 

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651 “ Self or Bearer ” . , , 

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882 Children of Gibeon . , , 

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904 The Holy Rose .... 

. . . » le 



i 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


PROLOGUE. • 

All night long, until within a couple of hours of day- 
break, the ships^ boats were rowing to and fro between the 
fleet and the shore, swiftly, yet without haste, as if the 
work had to be done without delay, yet must be done in 
order. They were embarking the English and the Spanish 
troops, for the town was to be abandoned. All night long 
the soldiers stood in their ranks, waiting for their turn in 
stolid patience. Some even slept leaning on their mus- 
kets, though the season was midwinter, and though all 
round them there was such a roaring of cannon, and such 
a bursting and hissing of shells, as should have driven sleep 
far away. But the cannon roared and the shells burst 
harmlessly so far as the soldiers were concerned, for they 
were drawn up in the Fort Lamalque, which is on the east 
of the town, while the cannonading was from Fort Cairo, 
which is on the west. The Republicans fired, not upon the 
embarking army, but upon the town and upon the boats in 
the harbor, where the English sailors were destroying those 
of the ships which they could not take away with them, so 
that what had been a magnificent fleet in the evening be- 
came by the morning only a poor half dozen frigates. 
They burned the arsenal; they destroyed the stores; not 
until the work of destruction was complete, and all the 
troops were embarked, did they turn their thoughts to the 
shrieking and panic-stricken people. 

What do we, who all our lives have sat at home in peace 
and quietness, know of such a night? What do we, who, 
so far, have lived beyond the reach of war, comprehend of 
such terror as fell upon all hearts when — Twas the night 
of the eighteenth of December, in the year of grace one 
thousand seven hundred and ninety-three — the people of 
Toulon discovered that the English and Spanish troops 


6 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


were leaving the town, and thafc they were left to the tender 
mercies of the Kepublicans? Toulon was their last camp 
of refuge; Lyons had fallen; Marseilles had fallen. As the 
JEnglish gathered together in the fens and swamps to escape 
the Normans, so the Proven9al folk fled to Toulon out of 
the way of the Ee publicans. As for their tender mercies, 
it was known already what had been done at Lyons, and 
what at Marseilles. What would they not do at Toulon, 
which had not only pronounced against the Republic, but 
had even invited the English and the Spanish to occupy 
and hold the town? And now their allies were embarking, 
and they were without defense. 

It took time for them to understand the situation. They 
did not learn that Fort Oaire and the Pharon had been 
taken by the Republicans, until the cannon of the forts 
were turned upon the town, and the bombardment began. 
Then they ran out of their houses, because it is better to 
die in the open than to die in a hole, and congregated — 
some in the churches, some in the Place d^Armes, and some 
on the quays. It was dreadful, even there, because the 
shells which flew hurtling in the air sometimes burst over 
-their heads, and the cannon-shot sometimes flew through 
the crowd, making long lanes where the dead and wounded 
lay. It was more dreadful when the English sailors fired 
the arsenal and the stores, and the lurid flames leaped up 
into the sky, and roared and ran from place to place. It 
was more dreadful still when the lubberly Spaniards blew 
up the powder-ships instead of sinking them, and that with 
so terrible an explosion that thft boats in the harbor were 
blown clean out of the water. But it was most dreadful of 
all when it became known that the English had abandoned 
the town, and were even then embarking at Fort Lamalque, 
where they were secure from the fire of the other forts; be- 
cause then the people understood that they would be left to 
certain death. 

Then with one consent they rushed upon the Quay. The 
women carried their little ones and dragged the elder chil- 
dren by the hand; the men snatched up whatever, in the 
terror of tlie moment, they could save that seemed worth 
saving, and there, crowded all together, they shrieked and 
cried to the English boats, and implored the sailors to carry 
them on board. 

All night long they vainly cried, the men cursing the 


THE HOLY EOSE. 


r 


English for their inhumanity, the women holding up the 
children — for the flames of the arsenal made the Quay as 
light as day — if the sight of the tender innocents would 
move their hearts. All night long the sailors, unmoved, 
went on with their work of destruction in the harbor, and 
of embarkation on the fl^et. But in the early morning, 
two hours before day-break, they had done all that they had 
time to do, and they thought of the wretched people. 

When the boats touched tlie Quay there arose a desperate 
cry, for it seemed here, indeed, as with those who of old 
time stood or lay about the Pool of Siloam, that only he 
who stepped in first would come out whole. Then those 
behind pushed to the front, aiid those in front leaped into 
the boats, and some in their haste leaped into the water 
instead and were drowned; and, to make the terror worse, 
the formats, who had been released when the arsenal was 
fired, came down upon the crowd, six hundred strong, yell- 
ing, ‘‘ The Republicans are upon us! They are coming! 
They are coming Then even those who had been most 
patient, fearing above all things to lose each other, and re- 
solved to cling to their treasui*es if possible, either lost their 
heads and rushed forward, or were forced to the front by 
those behind and separated; and in the - confusion they 
dropped their treasures, which tbe convicts picked up. 
And some were pushed into the water, and some, especially 
the women and children, were thrown down and trampled 
to death; and at this moment the cannon-shot of Fort 
Caire fell ‘ into the densest part of the crowd. And some 
went mad, and began to laugh and sing, and one or two 
fell dead with the terror and distraction of it. But the 
English sailors went on steadily with their work, helping 
the people into the boats, and when those were full push- 
ing off and making room for others, as if they were Ports- 
mouth wherries taking holiday folk to see the ships at 
Spithead; so that, although at day-break they were forced 
to desist, out of twenty thousand souls who were in Toulon, 
they took on board, all told, fourteen thousand five hun- 
dred men, women, and children. 

Among the groups on the outskirts of the crowd there 
was one of four, consisting of two ladies, a man, and a boy. 
One of the ladies sat upon the arm of an anchor, holding 
the boy by the hand. She had stuffed his ears with wool 
and covered his head with her shawl, so that he should see 


8 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


and hear as little as possible. The other, who stood by her^ 
was dressed as a nun. In her hands she held a golden 
crucifix, and her eyes were turned to the heavens. The 
man stood silent, only from time to time whispering to the 
lady with the boy: 

We can die but once, Eugenie. Courage, my wife.^^ 

Then came the false alarm of the formats, and a surging 
wave of humanity suddenly rushed upon them, bearing 
them along upon the tide. And as for the lady called 
Eugenie, she was carried off her feet, but held the boy in 
her arms, and knew nothing until the strong hands of two 
English sailors caught her as she was falling headlong into 
the water, crying: 

Now then, Madame Parleyvoo, this is your way; not 
into the harbor this time. Lay down, ma'am; lay down, 
and sit quiet." 

When it was day-break the refugees upon the deck looked 
around them. They were seeking for brother and sister, 
husband, wife, lover, parent, or child; with them Madame 
Eugenie. Alas! the husband was nowhere on the ship. 
They comforted her with the hope that he might be on one 
of the other vessels. But she was to see him no more. 
Presently her eyes fell upon a figure lying motionless be- 
side a cannon on the deck. It was a nun, in blue and 
white. 

‘‘Sister!" cried Mme. Eugenie; “Sister Claire! You 
are saved; oh, you are saved." 

The nun slowly opened her eyes, looking about her. 

“ I thought," she said, “that we had passed through 
the pangs of death, and were on our wav to the gates of 
heaven." The terror of the night had ’made her reason 
wander for the moment. “ Where are we, sister?" 

“ We are safe, dear. But where — oh, where is Ray- 
mond.^" ^ 

“ I know not. What has happened? What have I 
here?" 

In her hand she carried a bag. 

I have said that in the hurry of the moment each 
snatched up what seemed most precious. This lady, for 
her part, held in her hand a large leather bag, containing 
something about eighteen inches long. If we consider how^ 
weak a woman she was, in what a crowd she was pressed, 
how she was carried into the boat and hoisted on board. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


9 


and how her wits fled for terror, it seems nothiDg short of 
a miracle that she should have brought that bag on board 
in safety. But she did, and thus a miracle, she always be- 
lieved, was wrought in behalf of her and those she loved. 

She sat up and began to recover herself. 

‘‘ Oh, my sister she said, bursting into tears, “ 3^ou are 
safe; and I have saved the Rose, the Holy Rose, the Rose 
blessed by the Pope.^'’ 

‘‘And I,” said Eugenie, “have lost my husband. 
Thank God, the boy is safe. But where is Raymond?’’ 

Then followed the sound of a fierce cannonading; the 
last, because the Republicans now discovered that the place 
was abandoned. 

The nun kissed the crucifix. 

“ Those who are not with us,” she said, solemnly, “ are 
with God. If they are not dead already they, will be pres- 
ently killed by those who are the enemies of God and the 
King. Let us pra}^ my sister, for the souls of the mar- 
tyrs. ” 

In the afternoon of that day the English and Spanish 
ships being now under full sail and out of sight, there was 
the strangest sight that the Toulonnais had ever seen. The 
performance took place in the Place d’Armes, under the 
trees which, in summer, make a grateful shade in the hot 
sun. Generally there is a market there, which begins at 
day-break, and is carried on lazily, and with many intervals 
for sleep and rest, until the evening. But to-day the 
market-women were not at their stalls, and the stalls were 
empty. The smoke of the still burning arsenal was blow- 
ing slowly over the town, obscuring the sky; some of the 
ships in the harbor were still on fire, adding their smoke, 
so that, though the sky was clear and the sun was bright, 
the town was dark. Under the trees at the western end of 
the Place, sat four Commissioners, forming four courts. 
They were dressed in Republican simplicity of long flowing 
hair, long coats with high collars, and their throats tied up 
in immense mufflers. They were provided with chairs, and 
they were surrounded by a guard of soldiers. The fellows 
were in rags, and for the most part barefooted; but every 
man had his musket, his bayonet, and liis pouch. They 
carried nothing more. Their hair was longer than that of 
the Commissioners; their cheeks were hollow, partly from 


10 THE HOLY ROSE. 

short rations long continued, and partly from the fatigues 
of the last week’s incessant fighting. x\nd their eyes were 
fierce; as fierce as the eyes of those Gauls who first met a 
Eoman legion. In the open part of the Place, where there 
were no trees to shelter them, were grouped together a 
company of prisoners, driv^en together at the point of the 
bayonet. They were the helpless and unresisting folk who 
had been left behind by the retreating English. The men 
stood silent and resigned, or, if they spoke, it was to con- 
sole the women, who, for their part, worn out by terror 
and fatigue, sat as if they could neither hear, nor see, nor 
feel anything at all, not even the wailing of the children. 

At the east end of the Place were more soldiers, and 
these were engaged in turn, by squads of six, in standing 
shoulder to shoulder and firing at a target which was con- 
tinually changed. 

A strange occupation, surely, for soldiers of the Pepub- 
lic! For the target at which they aimed, at ten feet dis- 
tance, was by turns a man, a woman, or a child, as might 
happen. They always hit that target, which then fell to 
the ground, and became instantly white and cold, and was 
dragged away to be replaced by another. 

For the Eepublic, revengeful as well as indivisible, was 
executing Justice upon her enemies. With this Pepublic, 
which was naturally more ruthless, because less responsible, 
than any Tyranny, Justice was always spelled with a capi- 
tal, and meant Death. So exactly was Justice at this 
time a synonym for La Mort that one is surprised 
that the latter word should have survived at all during 
the early years of Pevolution, when the thing was signified 
equally well by the word Justice. The judges here were 
tliose pure and holy spirits, Citizens Freron, Pobespierre 
the Younger, Barras, and Saliceti, all virtuous men, and 
all fully permeated with a conviction of the great truth, 
that when a man is dead he can plot no more. Therefore, 
as fast as the traitors of Toulon, who had held out for the 
family of Capet, and had invited the detestable and perfid- 
ious English into their city, and had been contented with 
their rule, were brought before them, they were sentenced 
to be done to death incontinently, and without any foolish 
delay in the investigation of the case, or in appeals to any 
hitler court, or any waste of time over prayers and priest. 

Presently there was brought before Citizen Freron a 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


11 


Gentleman. There could be no doubt upon this subject, 
because, even at this moment, when the result of this trial 
was- certain, he preserved the proud and self-possessed air 
which exasperated the Republicans, who easily succeeded in 
looking fearless and resolute, but never preserved calm- 
ness. It wants a very well-bred man to possess his soul 
and govern himself with dignity in the presence of a vio- 
lent death. When it came to the turn of the Robespierres, 
for example, one of them jumped out of window, and the 
other shot himself in the head. Yet in the dignity of the 
Nobles the fiery Republicans read contempt for themselves, 
and it maddened them. This gentleman was a handsome 
man of five-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with straight and 
regular features, black eyes, and a strong chin. . Y’ou may 
see his face carved upon those sarcophagi of Arles, where 
are sculptured a whole gallery of Roman heads belonging 
to the second century. It was, in fact, a Roman face such 
as may be seen to this day at Tarascon, Aiguesmortes, and 
Arles; a clear-cut face, whose ancestor was very likely some 
gallant legionary born in the Campagna, who, his years of 
service accomplished, was left behind, grizzled and weather- 
beaten, but strong still, to settle in the Provincia, to marry 
one of the black-haired, half-breed Gaulish maidens, to 
bring up his family, presently to die, and then to be re- 
membered for another generation at least in the yearly 
commemorative Festival of the Dead. 

‘‘ Your narne?^’ asked Commissioner Freron. 

There were no clerks, and no notes were taken of the 
cases. But certain formalities must be observed in the 
administration of justice. 

My name is Raymond d’ Arnault, Comte d^Eyragues,’ " 
the prisoner replied in a clear, ringing voice. 

“ You have been found in the town which for two months 
has harbored and entertained the enemies of the Republic. 
You were on the Quay, endeavoring to escape. Why were 
you endeavoring to escape 

The prisoner made no reply. 

“ Friends of the Republic do not fly before the presence 
of her soldiers. A\Tiat have you to sayr’^ 

‘‘ Nothing,^^ said the prisoner. 

‘‘ Is there any present who can give evidence as to the 
accusedr^^ asked the President. 

A man stepped forward. 


12 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


“ I can give evidence, Citizen Commissioner.''^ 

He was a man, still young, whose face bore certain un- 
mistakeable signs denoting an evil life. Apparently his 
courses had led him to a condition of poverty, for his 
clothes were old and shabby. His coat, which had once 
been scarlet, was now stained with all the colors that age 
and rough treatment can add to the original color; its but- 
tons had formerly been of silver, but were now of horn; 
his hair was tied with a greasy black ribbon; his shoes had 
no buckles, and were tied with string; his stockings were 
of a coarse yarn. As he stepped to the front he seemed to 
avoid looking at the prisoner. 

Some of those who assisted at the trial might have 
noticed a strange thing. The man was curiously like the 
prisoner. They were both of the same stature; each of 
them had black eyes and black hair : each of them had a 
shapely head and strong, regular features. But the face of 
one was noble, and that of the other was ignoble, which 
makes a great difference to begin with. And one was calm 
in his manner though death stared him in the face; and 
the other, though nobody accused him of anything, was 
uneasy. 

“ What is. your name?^^ asked the Court. 

“ My name. Citizen Commissioner, is Louis Leroy. 

At these words there was a murmur among all who heard 
them, and the Court itself showed its displeasure. 

“ It is my name,^' said the witness. A man does not 
make his own name.'^ 

“ Citizen, your name is an insult to the Republic. 

“ I will change it, then, for any other name you please. 

‘‘ What is your profession, citizen 

“ I am — he hesitated for a moment — “ I am a dancing- 
master at Aix.^^ 

A dancing-master may be a good citizen. As for your 
name, it shall be Gavotte — Citizen Gavotte. For your first 
name, it shall be no longer Louis, but Scipio. Proceed, 
Citizen Scipio Gavotte, and quickly. Do you know the 
accused?'^ 

“ I have known him all my life.^^ 

“ What can you tell the Court about him?'' 

“ He is an aristocrat and a Royalist, therefore the enemy 
of the Republic; also a devout Catholic, therefore the 
enemy of mankind." 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


13 


What is his business in the city of Toulon? Why is he 
found here?^’ 

“ He was one of those who invited the English into the 
town. It was thought that Marseilles, Lyons, and Toulon 
would all hold out together, and be three centers for rally- 
ing the Royalists. The Count was strong in favor of En- 
glish intervention. 

‘ ‘ Have you anything further to depose, Citizen Gavotte? 
iisked the Court. 

‘‘ Nothing more."^ 

Accused, have you anything to ask the witness.^' ^ 

‘‘ Nothing,^’ replied the Count. 

‘‘ Citizen Arnault, said the President, “ you have heard 
the evidence. You are charged with inviting the enemies 
of the Republic to insult with their jDresence the sacred soil 
of the Republic; you have delivered into their hands the 
fleets of France; you have destroyed the arsenals and the 
munitions of war. Have you anything to urge in defense?” 

“ Nothing. 

‘‘You admit the charge, then?” 

“I admit the charge. It is quite true. I would not 
willingly waste the time of this honorable Court. There 
are many hundreds of honest people waiting their turn to 
be treated as you treated the people of Lyons. I have 
nothing more to say.^^ 

“ Death!” said Commissioner Freron. 

The Count heard the sentence with a slight bow. Then 
the soldiers led him away to the other end of the Place, 
where the prisoners already sentenced were gathered to- 
gether waiting their turn, men and women. As for the 
former, they affected indifference; but the women, with 
clasped hands and white faces, gazed into the light of day, 
which they were to see no more; and some hung upon the 
shoulders of husband or lover; and some sat together, their 
arms about each other’s necks, whispering that they should 
not be separated for many moments, and that the i^ang of 
death was momentary. 

The Count spoke to no one, but he turned his head slow- 
ly, surveying the scene as if it was a very curious and in- 
teresting spectacle, full of odd and amusing details, which 
he would not willingly forget. The ragged soldiers, the 
mock dignity of the Court, seemed to amuse him. But 
among those who stood among the soldiers, he suddenly 


14 


THE HOLY HOSE. 


observed the fellow who had given evidence against him. 
He was crouching in the crowd, his eyes aglow with hatred 
and eagerness to see the carrying out of the sentence. 
With a gesture of authority the Count beckoned him. The 
man, perhaps from force of habit, obeyed. So for a mo- 
ment they stood face to face. Truly, they were so much 
like each other that you might have taken them for 
brothers. 

‘‘ Louis, said the Count, speaking as one speaks to a 
dependent or a humble friend, ‘‘ it needed not thy testi- 
mony, my friend. I was already sentenced. Pity that I 
could not die without finding out that you were my enemy 
—you.” 

The man said nothing. 

Why, Louis, whyp^ the Count continued. “We were 
boys together; once we were playfellows. I loved thee in 
the old days, before thy wild ways broke thy mother^s 
heart. It was not I, but my father, who bade thee begone 
from the village for a vaurien. Why, then, Louis? 

“ Your name and your estate should have belonged to 
me, and gone to my son. I was born before you, though 
my mother was not married to — your father. 

“ Indeed!’^ said the Count, coldly. “ So this rankled, 
did it? Poor Louis! I never suspected it. Yet my death 
will not undo the past. Louis, I shall be shot, but thou 
wilt not inherit the name or the estate. 

“I shall buy the estate, said the man. “ Estates of 
emigres and traitors can be bought for nothing in these 
times; so that after all the elder brother will inherit.” 

“And yet, Louis, Tis pity; because thy brother’s death 
will now be laid to thy charge. There can be, me thinks, 
little joy for one who murders his brother.” 

The man’s face flushed. 

“ What do I care?” he said. “ Go to be shot, and when 
you fall, remember that the vineyards and the olive-groves 
will be mine— the property of the brother who was sent 
away in disgrace, to be a gambler, a poet, a dancing-master 
— anything.” 

“ My brother,” the Count replied, “ thou hast changed 
thy name. It is no longer Leroy, nor Gavotte, but Cain. 
Farewell, brother, enjoy the estates and be happy.” 

He dismissed him with a gesture cold and disdainful. 

Enjoy thy estates, Cain.” 


THE HOLY ROSE. 1-5 

Citizen Gavotte slunk back; but he waited on the Place 
matching, until his brother fell. 

Meantime the Commissioners of the Republic continued 
to administer justice, and the file of soldiers continued to 
execute it, and every man and woman had his fair turn and 
no favor, which tlie Republic always granted to its prison- 
ers; and each one, when his turn came, stood before the 
pointed muskets, and then fell heavily, white of cheek, his 
heart beating no longer, upon the stones. 

When Justice was thoroughly satisfied, which took several 
days, and the remnant of the Toulonnais was reduced to 
slender proportions, they threw the bodies into the Mediter- 
ranean, where they lie to this day. 


CHAPTER I. 

IK MY GARDEK. 

The village of Portchester is a place of great antiquity, 
but it is little, and, except for its old Castle, of no account. 
Its houses are all contained in a single street, beginning at 
the Castle gate and ending long before you reach the Ports- 
mouth and Fareham road, which is only a quarter of a mile 
from the Castle. Most of them are mere cottages, with 
thatched or red-tiled roofs, but they are not mean or 
squalid cottages; the folk are well-to-do, though humble, 
and every house in the village, small or great, is covered 
all over, back and front, with climbing roses. The roses 
cluster over the porches, they climb over the red tiles; they 
peep into the latticed windows, they cover and almost hide 
the chimney. In the summer months the air is heavy wi'th 
tlieir perfume; every cottage is a bower of roses; the flowers 
linger sometimes far into the autumn, and come again with 
the first warm days of J une. Nowhere in the country, I 
am sure, though I have seen few other places, is there such 
a village for roses. Apart from its flowers I confess that the 
place has little worthy of notice; it can not even show a 
church, because its church is within the Castle walls, and 
quite hidden from the village. 

On a certain afternoon of April, in the year of grace one 
thousand eight hundred and two, the color of the leaves 
was just beginning to show on the elms, the buds were 
swelled in the chestnuts, the blossom was out on the al- 


16 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


monel, and the hedges were already green. The sunshine 
was so warm tliat one could bring one^s work out to ther 
porch, with a shawl round the neck; the village was not 
quiet, and yet it was peaceful; that is to say, there were 
the ordinary sounds which are expected, and therefore do 
not annoy. The children were playing and shouting, the 
soldiers were disputing outside the tavern door, the village 
blacksmith and his two apprentices were hammering some- 
thing on a tuneful anvil, which rang true at every stroke 
like a great bell; the barber was flouring a wig at the open 
door, and whistling through his teeth over the job, as a 
groom whistles while he rubs down a horse; a flock of geese 
walked along the road croaking and calling to each other; 
a dog barked after his sheep, keeping them in order, and 
the cobbler sitting in his door-way was singing aloud while 
he cut the leather, adjusted it, and hammered it into place. 
Sometimes he sung out merrily, sometimes he sung low. 
This was according as the work went easily and to his 
liking, or the contrary. •’Twas a rogue who always had 
some merry ditty in his mouth, and to-day it was the fa- 
mous ale-house song which begins: 

“ I’ve cheated the parson, I’ll cheat him agen; 

For why should the rogue have one pig in ten? 

One pig in ten, 

One pig in ten. 

Why should the rogue have one pig in ten?” 

Here something inteiTupted his song and liis work, but 
immediately afterward he went on again: 

“ One pig in ten. 

One pig in ton. 

Why should the rogue have one pig in ten?” 

When I had resob ed to write down my history, and was 
considering how best to relate it, there came into my miiub 
quite unexpectedly, a single afternoon. At first there 
seemed no reason why this day more than any other sh mid 
be i-emembered. Yet the memory of it is persistent, and 
has so forced itself upon me that every moment of it now 
stands out as clear and distinct before my eyes as if it were 
painted on canvas. Perhajis in the world to come we shall 
have the power and the will to recall day by day the whole 
of our lives, and so be enabled to live each moment again, 
and as often as we please and as long* as we please. I con* 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


17 


fess that I am so pooi’ly endowed with spiritual gifts that I 
should desire iiothin-g better than to prolong at will the 
blessed years of love and happiness with my husband (who, 
to be sure, has never ceased to be my lover) and my chil- 
dren. Biift Madame Claire (who was never married) says 
that the joys of our earthly life will appear to us hereafter 
as poor, unworthy things, and that subjects of more holy 
contemplation will be provided for us which will more fitly 
occupy our thoughts. That may be so, and if any one no^" 
living in this world should know aught of the next it is 
Madame Claire, a saint, though a Roman Catholic, and 
formerly a nun. Still, for one who has tasted the joys of 
earthly love and been a mother of children, the memory of 
these, or their renewal, would seem enough happiness for 
ever and ever. Amen. 

The day which came into my head is that day in spring 
of which I have just spoken. The porch in which I was 
sitting belonged to a house in a great garden, which 
stretched back from the village street. The garden was 
full of everything which can grow in this country. Apple- 
and pear-trees were trained in frames beside the beds. 
These were bare as yet, except for the cabbages, but in a 
month or two they would be green with pease and beans, 
asparagus, tettuce, and everything else of green herbs that 
is good for food. There were glass frames for cucumbers 
and melons; a great glass house for grapes and peaches; 
there was quite a forest of raspbeny canes, gooseberry and 
currant bushes; and there was an orchard full of fruit- 
trees, apples of the choicest kinds, such as the golden pip- 
pin, the ribston and king pippin, and the golden russet; 
there were also pears. Windsor and jargonelle, plums and 
damsons, cherries and mulberries, Siberian crab and med- 
lar. Again, if the beds were full of vegetables, the narrow 
edges were planted with all kinds of herbs good for tiie 
still-room and for medicines — such as lavender for the 
linen, to take away the nasty smell of the soap; the tall 
tansy for puddings; thyme, parsley, mint, fennel, and sage 
for the kitchen; rosemary, marjoram, southern-wood, fever- 
few, sweetbrier, for medicines and strong waters. Among 
the herbs flourished, though not yet in bloom, such flowers 
as will grow without trouble, such as double stocks, carna- 
tions, gillyflowers, crocus, lily-of- the- valley, bachelors^ -but- 
tons, mignonette, nasturtium, sunflower, monkshood, In- 


18 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


pins, and tall hollyhocks. In short, it was, and is still, a 
beautiful, bounteous, and generous garden, the equal and 
Hke of which I have never seen. 

The house stood in one corner of the garden, its gable- 
end turned to the road. Like all the houses in the village, 
it was covered with roses, and, except the Vicarage, it was 
the most considerable house in the place. It was of red 
brick, and had a porch in the front/ facing a broad lawn, 
which served for a bowling-green. The porch was of 
wood, painted white, and was so ■l)road that there was a 
bench on either side, where one could be sheltered from 
north and east winds. At the back of the house a brick 
wall marked one boundary of our land. It was an ancient 
broad wall, with no stint of red bricks, such as I love, and 
covered with moss and lichen— green, gray, red, and yel- 
low. In the places where the mortar had fallen out grew 
pellibory and green rue, while the top of the wall was bright 
with yellow stonecrop, tall grasses, and wallllowers already 
in blossom. The wall ran from the road to wdtliin a short 
distance of high-water mark, where it was succeeded by a 
wooden paling. Thus our garden was bounded on three 
sides by road, wall, and sea; on the fourth side it was sepa- 
rated from the Castle by a field of coarse grass, growing in 
tufts and tall bents. Under the shelter of the. brick wall 
was a row of bee-hives; a mighty humming they made in 
summer evenings, and a profitable thing was their honey 
when it came in, for, of all living creatures, the sailor has 
the sweetest tooth. 

There is always work to do, and some one doing it, in 
this great garden all the year round. This afternoon the 
boys were busy among the beds. Sally stood over them, 
rope’s-end in hand, but more for ornament and the badge 
of ofiice, as the bo’s’n carries his cane, than for use, though 
every boy in our employment had tasted of that rope’s-end. 
Her father, sitting on a wheelbarrow, had a broom in his 
hand and a pipe in his mouth, thus giving his countenance, 
so to speak, to the boys’ work. To look at him you would 
have thought that hiis working days were now over and 
done, so wrinkled was his face and so bent his shoulders. 
Yet he was only seventy-five, and lived for twenty years 
longer. 

He it was who managed the boat, taking her down the 
creek every morning, summer and winter, wet or dry, fair 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


19 


weather or foul, high tide or low. Every sailor in the 
King’s ships knew the boat and the old man, commonly 
called Daddy, who rowed or sailed her; and every sailor 
knew Dorchester Sal, the bumboat-woman, who came along- 
side in the morning with a boat-load of everything belong- 
ing to the season ; who knew all the young gentlemen, and 
even had a word for the first lieutenant. As for the tars,, 
she freely talked with them in their own language, and a 
rough language that is. She would also, it was said, drink 
about with any of them, and, in the cold mornings, when 
the air was raw, smoked a pipe of tobacco in the boat. At 
this .time she was five-and-forty years of age, and single. 
She dressed in all seasons alike, in a sailor’s jacket, with a 
short petticoat and great waterman’s boots. For head-gear 
she never wore anything but a thick thread cap, tied tightly 
to her head; round her neck was a red woolen wrapper, the 
ends tucked under the jacket. Her face was as red and 
weather-beaten as any sailor’s, her hands were as rough 
aiid hard; and I verily believe that her arms were as 
strong with the daily handling of the oars, the carrying of 
the baskets, the digging, weeding, and planting of the gar- 
den, and the correction of the boys. 

This garden was my own, mine inheritance, bequeathed 
to me by my mother’s father, and a providential bequest it 
proved. The boat was my own. Daddy and Sally were 
my own, 1 suppose, for they belonged to the garden. And 
they sold for us, on board the ship or in the town^ the 
fruits and vegetables in due season. They also prepared 
and sold to the purveyors of ships’ stores, and for those 
who sold smuggled tea secretly — there are many such in 
Portsmouth — a great quantity of leaves picked by the boys 
from the sloe, ash, and elm-trees, dried ready for mixing 
with the real tea. And Sally also grew for the herbalists a 
great quantity of plants for those concoctions wiuch some 
people think better than any doctors’ stuff. 

We had not always lived in Porchester. We lived, when 
I first remember anything, in a great house in Bloomsbury 
Square, close to Bedford House. Here we had footmen 
and a coach, and were, as my father daily in after years 
reminded me, very great people, indeed, he being nothing 
less than an Alderman. But, my dear,” he was wont to 
say, '‘I persuaded myself to retire.” Here he sighed 
heavily. In the City we are born to amass wealth, but 


20 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


I retired. I was already but three years off tlie Mansion 
House — but I retired. Well/^ here he would look about 
the room, which was, to be sure, small and ill-furnished, 
‘‘ the world seldom enjoys the spectacle of a substantial 
merchant retiring into obscurity in a country cottage. 
Here he sighed again. 

He retired when I was a little girl of eight or nine, so 
that I knew nothing of the circumstances connected with 
his retirement, but I understood well enough that he deep-, 
ly regretted that step, and longed to be back again on 
^Change. 

In two words, we now lived in this small house; and my 
father, instead of directing the affairs of a great London 
business, took the accounts daily from Sally on her return 
from the harbor. And a very flourishing and prosperous 
business it was, while the war lasted; and, though I neither 
knew nor inquired, it not only kept us in comfort, but ena- 
bled my father to keep up the appearance of a substantial 
merchant; gave him guineas to jingle in his pocket, and 
preserved for him among the officers and others who used 
the best room at the tavern of an evening, the dignity and 
authority which he loved. 

At this time I was nineteen years of age. Alas! it is 
more than twenty years ago. Good King George is dead 
at last, and I am nearly forty years old. The garden still 
lies before me, with its fruit-trees, its flowers, and the bees, 
but what has become of the girl of nineteen: Oh, what 
becomes of our youth and beauty? Whither do they go 
when they leave us: Whither go the fresh and rosy cheeks, 
the dancing eyes, and the smiling lips: What becomes of 
them when they disappear and leave no trace J3ehind: 
Those were blue eyes which liaymond loved, and the curls 
which it pleased him to dangle in his hands and twirl about 
his fingers, were light brown; and as for the pink and 
white of the cheeks — nay, it matters not. The girl was 
comely, and she found favor in the sight of the only man 
she could ever love. What more, but to thank the Giver 
of all good things? Love and beauty are among the fruits 
of the earth, for which we pray that they may be given us 
in due season. 

I was sitting in the porch, pretending to be engaged in 
cutting out and making a new frock. I remember that 
the stuff was a gray camblet, which is a useful material, 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


21 


and that the frock was alread}- so far advanced that the 
lining was cut and basted on the camblet. But I was not 
thinking at all about the work; for, oh! what should a girl 
think about the very day after her lover had spoken to her? 
Spoken, do I say? Nay, knelt before her and prayed to 
lier, and sworn such vows as made her heart leap up, and 
' her cheek first flush with joy and then turn pale with ter- 
ror; for it is the property of love to fill us first with glad- 
ness unspeakable and then with fear. And, besides, I 
heard voices in the parlor, the window being open, and I 
knew very well whose voices they were, viz., those of the 
Vicar and my father, and that they were talking of Eay- 
mond and myself. For the Vicar had always been the 
patron and protector of the Arnolds, but it could not be 
denied they came from France, and my father hated all 
Frenchmen. 

Presently, however, the conference was over and they 
both came out together, my father carrying himself, it 
seemed to me, with more than his usual dignity. Heavens! 
what a Lord Mayor he would have made, had Heaven so 
willed it! Authority sat upon his brow; wealth and success 
were stamped upon his face. He spoke slowly, and as one 
whose words bring a blessing upon those who hear them. 
A corpulence above the common, joined to a stature also 
above the common, a commanding nose, thick eyebrows, 
and a deep voice, all joined in producing the effect of great 
natural dignity. 

While my father walked upright, swelling with conse- 
quence, the Vicar beside him might have been the domestic 
chaplain to some great nobleman in the presence of his 
master. For, being tall and thin, and with a stooping 
figure, he seemed to be deferring to the judgment of a 
superior. Yet, as his eyes met mine, there was in them a 
look of encouragement which raised my hopes. 

Ha!^^ he said, standing before the porch, your gar- 
den is always before mine, Molly. There is goodly promise 
for the year, they tell me. Well, Naboth’s vineyard was 
not more desirable. Perhaps Ahab looked down upon it 
from the keep of his castle, which, I dare say, greatly re- 
sembled yon great tower. It is . a goodly garden. It is a 
garden which in the spring should fill the heart with hope, 
and in the autumn with gratitude. 

‘‘ ’Tis well enough,” said my father, taking my seat. 


22 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


“ ^Tis well enough, and serves to amuse the child. It 
grows a small trifle of fruit too, sufficient — ay, ^tis suffi- 
cient — for the modest wants of this poor house. 

No doubt one who has known sucn greatness as my father 
had enjoyed could talk in such a manner concerning the 
garden. But — a trifle! 

In former days. Vicar, my father continued, “ we 
had our early pease and hot-house grapes from Covent Gar- 
den. But a merchant who retires into the country has to 
content himself with whatever trifle of garden he may light 
upon.^^ 

‘‘ True, sir; His very true. But to our business. Molly, 
I have this evening been an embassador to thy father from 
— nay — thou canst surely guess, child; indeed, in thy 
cheeks I see that thou hast guessed rightly. ” 

‘‘From Raymond, Molly, my father added, kindly. 
“ From the young man, Raymond Arnold.'’^ 

“ 1 have pointed out to thy father, Moll}", that a gentle- 
man of the ancient county of Proven 9 e is not a French- 
man, though he may for the time be under French rule. 
He speaks not the same tongue; he hath not the same 
ancestry. Wherefore, thy father^ first objection against 
Frenchmen doth not hold in the case of Raymond. 

“ This I grant,^^ said my father. 

“ Did not his father die in support of those principles for 
which w"e are still contending? And, again, the Vicar 
continued, “ His a lad of honorable descent and of illustri- 
ous foreign rank, if that were of importance.'^ 

“ It is not," said my father. “ There is no more honor- 
able descent than to be the child of a substantial London 
merchant. Talk not to me, sir, of French Nobles. Heard 
one ever of an English Peer teaching a mere accomplish- 
ment for a living?" 

“ Very well, sir; but it is to the point that he is a lad of 
good morals and sound principle; no drinker or brawler; 
who enjoys already some success in his calling." 

“ These things, Vicar, are much more to the point." 

“ In short, Molly," said the Vicar, turning to me, “ thy 
father consents to this match, but it must be on a condi- 
tion." 

“ Oh, sir!" I kissed my father's hand. “You are all 
goodness. Is it for me to dispute any condition you may 
think well to impose?" 


THE HOLY ROSE. 23 

‘‘ The condition, Molly,"" said the Vicar, ‘‘ is that no 
change may be made in the existing arrangements."" 

“ Why, sir, what change should be made.^"" 

When daughters marry, my child, they generally go 
away and leave their fathers; or they even turn their fa- 
thers out to make room for the husbands. "" 

Lovers are a selfish folk. I had not considered the 
dilference which my marriage might make to my father. 

Sir,"" I threw myself at his feet, “ this house is yours. 
If there is room in it for Raymond as well, we shall be 
grateful to you."" 

‘‘Good girl,"" he said, raising me, “good girl; I will 
continue to manage this little property for thee, to be 
sure."" He looked at the house with condescension. “The 
cottage is small, yet it is comfortable; in appearance it is 
hardly worthy of a substantial merchant, yet my habits are 
simple; the situation is quiet, and the garden fruits are, as 
I said before, sujBficient for my wants. I have retired from 
the City; I desire no more riches than I have. I would 
willingly end my days here. Enough said, child; I wish 
thee — he kissed me on the forehead — “ I wish thee all 
happiness, my dear."" 

This said, he rose with dignity, as if no more need be 
said, and walked out to the garden gate, and so to the 
tavern, where the better sort met daily. 

“ So,"" said the Vicar, “ here is a pretty day"s work — 
two young fools* made happy. Well, I pray that it may 
turn out well; a fools" paradise is a very pretty place when 
one is young. He loves thee, that is very sure; why, thou 
wilt be a Countess — ho! ho! — Countess Molly, when thou 
art married, child ; Sally will leave olf taking the boat down 
the harbor, I suppose, unless Raymond paints a coronet 
upon the bows and thy new name, Madame la Comtesse 
d"£yr agues."" 

Then the Vicar left me and departed; but he stopped in 
the road, and listened to the cobbler singing his eternal re- 
frain : 

“ One pig in ten, 

One pig in ten, 

Why should the rogue have one pig in ten?” 

“ Jacob,"" he said, “ must thy song ever smack of the 
pot-house? 'And when did thy Vicar ask thee for a pig?"" 

“ With submission, your reverence,"" said Jacob, ham- 


24 


THE HOLY EOSE. 


mer in air. What odds for the words so the music fits 
the work?” 

“Idle words, Jacob, are like the thistledown, which flies 
unheeded over the fields, and afterward produces weeds of 
its kind. Would not the Old Hundredth suit thy turn?” 

Jacob shook his head. 

“Nay, sir,” he said, “my kind of work is not like 
yours. The making of a sermon, I doubt not, is mightily 
helped by the Old Hundredth or Alleluia; but cobbling is 
delicate work, and wants a tune that runs up and down, 
and may be sung quick or slow, according as the work lays 
in heel or toe. I tried Alleluia, but Lord! I took two days 
with Alleluia over a job that with ‘ Morgan Rattler ^ or 
‘ Black Jack ^ I could have knocked off in three hours.” 

“In that case, Jacob,” said the Vicar, “the Church 
will forgive thee thy fib of one pig in ten. 

AVhen they were gone I sat down again, my heart much 
lighter, though my mind was agitated with thinking of 
what we should have done had my father withheld his con- 
sent. And for some time I heard nothing that went on, 
though tSally administered the rope’s-end to one of the boys, 
and the cobbler went on singing and the children shouting. 

Presently, however, I was disagreeably interrupted by 
the trampling of a horse’s hoofs, the barking of dogs, the 
cracking of a whip, and a loud, harsh voice, railing at a 
stable-boy. The voice it was which affected me, because I 
knew it for the voice of my cousin Tom, who had been 
drinking and laying bets with some of the officers all the 
morning, and was now about to ride home. Then the 
horse came clattering down the street, and he saw me in 
the porch, I suppose, for he drew rein at the gate and 
bawled out, his voice being thick with drink: 

“ Molly, Cousin Molly, I say! Come to the gate — come 
closer. Well, I have to-day heard a pretty thing of thee — 
a pretty thing, Molly,” he said; “ truly, nothing less than 
that you want to marry a Frenchman, a beggarly French- 
man. ” 

“ What business is that of yours?” I asked. 

“ You may tell him. Mistress Molly, that I shall horse- 
whip him.” 

I laughed in his face. A girl always believes that her 
lover is the bravest of men. 

“ You, Tom? Why, to be sure, Raymond does not de- 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


25 

sire to fight his sweetheart^s cousin; but if you so much as 
lift your little finger at hime, I promise you, big as you 
are, that you will be sorry for it. 

At this he used dreadful language, swearing what he 
would do when he should meet the man I preferred to 
himself. 

And him a Frenchman, Molly, he concluded. To 
think of it! WouldnT throw me over for a beggarly 
Frenchman? But wait, only wait till I have made him 
roar for mercy and beg my pardon on his knees. Then 
perhaps — ” 

“ Oh!^^ I cried, ‘‘ go away quickly, lest he should come 
and take you at your word.'^^ 

He began to swear again, but suddenly stopped and went 
away, cantering along the road, followed by his dogs; and, 
though I knew my Baymond- to be brave and strong, I was 
glad that he did not meet this half -drunken cousin of mine 
in his angry mood. 

Tom Wilgress, my mother's nephew, and therefore my 
own first cousin, who afterward broke his neck over a hedge 
fox-hunting, was then a young man about five-and-twenty. 
He was of a sturdy and well-built figure, but his cheeks 
were already red and puffed up with strong drink. He had 
a small estate, which he bequeathed to me, part of which 
he farmed, and part let out to tenants. It was situated 
north of Portsdown Hill, under the Forest of Bere. But 
the greater part of his time he spent at the Castle or the 
village tavern drinking, smoking tobacco, making bets, 
running races, badger-drawing, cock-fighting, and all kinds 
of sport with the officers of the garrison. He professed to 
be in love with me, and continually entreated me to marry 
him, a thing which I could not contemplate without horror. 
Sometimes he would fall on his knees and supifiicate me 
with tears, swearing- that he loved me better than his life 
(he did not say better than a bowl of punch), and some- 
times he would threaten me with dreadful pains and pun- 
ishments if I continued in my contumacy. 

This evening I clearly foresaw, from the redness of his 
face, the thickness of his voice, and a' certain glassy look in 
his eye, that he was about to adopt the latter method. 
Heaven pity the wife of such a man as my cousin Tom! 
But he is now dead, and hath left me his estate, wherefore 


26 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


I will speak of him no more evil than I can help, yet must 
speak the truth. 

When he was gone I returned to my work. 

Presently I was again interrupted, this time by Madame 
Claire. She had with her one of the French prisoners. It 
was a young man whom we all knew very well. He was a 
sous-lieutenant, which means some kind of ensign in a 
French infantry regiment, about Raymond's age— that is, 
between twenty-three and twenty-four — and had been a 
prisoner for three years. We knew a great many of the 
French officers; this was natural, because we were the only 
people in the village who could talk their language. I say 
we, because the Arnolds taught me, and in their cottage we 
spoke both French and ProvenQal. But this young man 
was our special friend ; he was the friend of Raymond, whom 
he called his brother, and o^ Madame Claire, whom he 
called his mother. Of course, therefore, he was my friend 
as well. The reasons for the affection we bore him were 
many. First, he came from the South of France, and was 
therefore a countryman of Raymond's, and had spoken, 
like Raymond, the language of the South when a child. 
.Next, when he was first landed he fell ill with some kind 
of malignant fever, which I believe would have carried him 
off but for Madame Claire, who nursed him, sitting with 
him day and night, a service for which he was ever grate- 
ful. Thirdly, he was a young man of the happiest disposi- 
tion, the kindest heart, and the sweetest manners possible. 

As he came from the same part of the country, it was 
not strange that he should be like Raymond, those of 
Southern France being all dark of complexion, and with 
black hair and. eyes. But it was remarkable that he should 
be so very much like him that they might be taken for 
twins. They were of the same height, which was some- 
thing under the average height of an Englishman; their 
heads were of the same shape, their eyes and hair of the 
same shade, their chins rounded in the same way; even 
their voices were the same. 

The resemblance was the greater this evening because, 
his own uniform having fallen into rags, Pierre wore the 
dress of a civilian, a brown coat and a round hat. His 
hair was neatly tied and powdered, his linen was clean; he 
might have passed very well for what they call the country 
Jessamy. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


27 


Of course, those who knew them well, knew the differ- 
ence between the two, just as a shepherd knows each sheep, 
though the}^ seem to the general world all exactly alike, Bo 
many were their points of difference, that it was impossible 
to mistake one for the other. Pierre was of a larger and 
stouter frame, in manner he was more vivacious, his step 
was livelier, his gestures more marked, he talked more. It 
was strange to note that Pierre, as well as Raymond, had 
what is called the air of distinction. No one could fail to 
remark that he looked, as we in England should say, every 
inch a gentleman, and carried himself accordingly, yet 
with something of the French gallantry and swagger which 
was not unbecoming. Yet he was by birth a son of the 
people; he came, like General Hoche, the soldier whom 
most he admired, from the gutter, and he was proud of it. 
Raymond, for his part, was of a more quiet habit — you 
would have taken him for a scholar — who talked little; a 
dreamer, contented to accept whatever fortune offered. 
Had he been a soldier, he might have had the same am- 
bitions as his friend, but he would have talked about them 
less. 

Their faces, said Mme. Claire, ‘‘are those of my 
countrymen. Some call it the Roman face; you may see 
it on the old monuments in the cemetery of Arles. Bona- 
parte is reported to have this face, though he is but a Cor- 
sican.'’^ 

I have never seen any nuns, but when- I hear or read of 
them I must needs think of Mme. Claire, who had been 
what is called a religieuse, but I know not of what kind. 
In religion she was named Sister Angelique, but her Chris- 
som name was Claire. She wore a frock of blue stuff with 
a long cloak of the same; on her head was a cap or hood 
of the same, with a white starched cap beneath; she had 
also a large white collar, round her neck was a gold chain 
with a crucifix, and in her hand she always carried a book, 
because her rules obliged her to read prayers at certain 
hours all through the day. She spent her time cliielly in 
the Castle infirmary, where she nursed and comforted the 
sick prisoners. Her face was pale, but sweet to look upon, 
and to me it seemed always as if she never thought of her- 
self at all, but always of the person with whom she was 
speaking. 

We are taught that to hide in a convent is but to ex- 


2S 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


change one set of temptations for another, but it would 
surely be ^a blessed thing if our Church allowed men and 
women to renounce the things in which we weaker creat- 
ures place our happiness (such as love, marriage, and tender 
children, or place, power, and wealth); and to give all their 
labor and thought for the good of others. This is what 
Mme. Claire did. 

Great news!^^ cried Pierre. ‘‘Great news indeed' 
Peace is concluded and signed. We are all going to be re- 
turned. 

This was news indeed. For four or five months nothing 
else had been spoken of; but though there was a cessation 
of hostilities, there was always the fear that the negotiations 
would be broken off. 

“ Peace I replied. “ And what have they done for 
the e?ni(/res 

“I believe they have done nothing. Vivelapaix ! — 
until we are ready to go home again. Then, tap-tap goes 
the drum, and to the field again, and I come home a 
colonel at least. 

“ I understand not,^^ said Madame, “ how peace can be 
concluded unless the King returns with the nobles, and the 
old order is established again. 

“ The old order Pierre laughed. “ Oh, ma mh'e, the 
old order is the old world before the Deluge. But you do 
not understand. Whatever else returns, the old order will 
never return. Why, will a people, once free, return to 
slavery?^ ^ 

“ But for what else has Great Britain fought, except for 
the old order?^^ 

“ I know not, indeed. But this I know, that the old 
order is dead and buried. 

Certainly there was never any man who more honestly 
believed in the Revolution than Pierre. Yet not like the 
wretches who were our first prisoners in that war, who 
shouted the Carmagnole and tossed their caps in the air, 
filled with hatred for priests and aristos. They were gone, 
and they would never come back again. 

“ How, then,^^ said Madame, “ are we to go back again, 
unless they return as our property?^' 

“ Your property is sold and your rights are lost,^^ Pierre 
replied. “ Come back and join the people. You are no 
longer a separate caste, we are all French together. Well, 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


29 


if you please, we will carve a slice out of Germany and 
give it to you. And your share, ma mhe, I will conquer 
for you with my own sword. 

In the evening, when they were gone, I had another vis- 
itor — Kaymond himself — and we talked together as lovers 
do, of nothing but ourselves. The peace was signed. It 
was not possible that Great Britain had abandoned the mn- 
igre^; some compensation would be made. For his part, 
he loved not the new order in France, and decided not to 
live there; he would be an Englishman; but with this com- 
pensation, he would do this and that, always with me. Oh, 
the dear, delightful talk! 

I went with him at nine o’clock to the garden gate. Sally 
was standing there waiting for us, her arms akimbo — well, 
with her short petticoats and big boots she looked exactly 
like a sailor. 

“ So, young gentleman,” she said, ‘‘ I hear that my 
mistress has promised to marry you.” 

‘‘ Indeed she has, Sally.” 

A lucky and a happy man her husband will be.” 

He will, Sally.” 

‘‘ We have known you a long time, Mr. Kaymond.” 

‘‘ More than eight years, Sally. ” 

And yet it can’t be denied that you are a Frenchman, 
much the same as those poor fellows now in the Castle.” 

^‘I am an Englishman now, Sally, because I shall have 
an English wife, which of course naturalizes a man.” 

“ I hope,” said Sally, ‘‘ that it’s more than skin-deej), 
and that we sha’n’t have no fallings off.” 


CHAPTER 11. 

PORGHESTER CASTLE. 

The Castle, which, now that the long wars are over, one 
hopes for many years, is silent and deserted, its ruined 
courts empty, its crumbling walls left to decay, presented 
a different appearance indeed in the spring of the year 
1802. For in those days it was garrisoned by two regi- 
ments of militia, and was occupied by the prodigious num- 
ber of eight thousand 2:>risoners. 

I am told that there are other ancient castles in the 
(];ountry even more extensive and more stately than For- 


30 


THE HOLY EOSE. 


Chester; but I have never seen them, and am quite satis- 
fied to believe that for grandeur, extent, and the awe of 
antiquity, there can be none which can surpass, and few 
which can pretend to equal, this monument. It is certainly 
ruinous in parts, yet still so strong as to serve for a great 
prison, but it is not overthrown, and its crumbling walls, 
broken roofs, and dismantled chambers surround the place 
with a solemnity which affects the most careless visitor. 

It is so ancient that there are some who pretend that 
parts of it may belong to British times, while it is certain 
that the whole of the outer wall was built by the Eomans. 
In imitation of their camps, it stands four-square, and has 
hollow round towers in the sides and at the corners. The 
spot was chosen, not at the mouth of the harbor, the Brit- 
ons having no means of attacking ships entering or going 
out; but at the very head of the harbor, where the creek 
runs up between the shallows, which are banks of mud at 
low water. Hither came the Roman galleys, laden with 
military stores, to land them under the protection of the 
Castle. When the Romans went away, and the Saxons 
came, who loved not fighting behind walls, they neglected 
the fortress, but built a church within the walls, and there 
laid their dead. W^hen in their turn the Normans came, 
they built a castle after their own fashion, within the Ro- 
man walls. This is the stronghold, containing four square 
towers and a fortified entrance. And the Normans built 
the water-gate and the gate tower. The rest of the great 
space became the outer bailly of the Castle. They also 
added battlements to the wall, and dug a moat, which thev 
filled with sea-water at high tide. 

The battlements of the Normans are now broken down 
or crumbling away; great patches of the rubble work have 
fallen here and there. Yet one can walk round the narrow 
ledge designed for the bowmen. The wall is crowned with 
wa^ng grass and wall-flowers, and up the sides grow elder- 
bushes, blackberry, ivy, bramble, as luxuriantly as in any 
hedge beyond Portsdown. If you step out through the 
water-gate, which is now roofless, with little left to show 
^ except a single massive column, you 

will find, at high tide, the water lapping the lowest stones 
01 lowers, just as it did when the Romans built them. 
Instead of the old galleys, which must have been light in 
draught, to come up Porchester Creek, there are now lying 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


31 


half a dozen boats, the whole fleet of the little village. On 
the other side of the water are the wooded islets of Great 
and Little Horsea, and I suppose they look to-day much as 
they did a thousand years ago. On this side you look to- 
ward the east; but, if you get to the south side of the Castle, 
and walk across a narrow meadow which lies between the 
wall and the sea, you have a very different view. For you 
look straight across the harbor to its very mouth, tiiree 
miles away; 3^ou gaze upon a forest of masts and upon ships 
of every kind, from the stately man-o’-war to the saucy 
pink, and, twenty years ago, of every nation — because, in 
those days, we seemed at war with half the world — ^from 
the French-built frigate, the most beautiful ship that floats, 
to the Mediterranean xebec, all of them prizes. Here 
they lie, some ready for sea, some just arrived, some bat- 
tered by shot, some newly repaired and fresh from the 
yard ; some — it seems a cruel fate for ships which have fought 
the battles of their country — converted into hulks for con- 
victs and for prisoners; some store-ships — why, there is no 
end to the number and the kind of the ships lying in the 
harbor. They could tell, if they could speak, of many a 
battle and many a storm; some of them are as old as the 
days of Admiral Benbow; one poor old hulk is so old that 
she was once a man-o’-war in the old Dutch wars of Charles 
the Second, and carried on board, it is said, the Duke of 
York himself. 

-In the dock-yard, within the harbor, the wooden walls 
of England are built; here they are fitted up; from this 
place they go forth to fight the French. Heavens! how 
many ships we sent forth every year! How many were 
built in the yard ! How many brave fellows were sacrificed 
year after year before the insatiable rage for war which pos- 
sessed one man, and through him, all Europe, could be 
overcome, and the tyrant confined in his cage, like a wild 
beast, until he should die! 

Standing under those walls, I sav, we could look straight 
down the harbor to the forts which guard its entrance; v/e 
could see in the upper part the boats plying backward and 
forward; we couid hear the booming of the salutes; we 
could even see the working of the semaphore, by whose 
mysterious arms news is conveyed to London in half an 
hour. And the sight of the ships, the movement of the 
harbor, the distant banging of the guns, made one, even 


32 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


one who lived in so quiet a village as Porcliester^ feel as if 
one was taking part in the great events which shook the 
world. It was a hard time to many, and an anxious time 
for all; a time full of lavish expenditure for the country: a 
time when bread was dear and work scarce, with trade bad 
and prospects uncertain. Alas! with what beating of heart 
did we wait for news, and gather together to listen when a 
newspaper was brought to the village! For still it seemed 
as if, defeat his navies though we might, and though we 
chased his cruisers off the seas, and tore down the French 
flag from his colonies, the Corsican Usurper was marching 
from one triumph to another, until the whole of Europe, 
save Russia and England, was subjugated and laid pros- 
trate at his feet. 

As for bad times, we at Porchester — so near to Ports- 
mouth, where all the shop-keepers were making their fort- 
unes, and the ships caused so great a daily expenditure of 
money — felt them but little, save for the cost of coals, 
which were, I remember, as much as fifty shillings a ton; 
and Uie lack of French brandy, which we women never 
wanted to drink, and of Gascony, or claret wine, which we 
replaced, quite to our own satisfaction, wdth the delicate 
cowslip or the wholesome ginger made in our own homes. 
Think, however, if there were so many men afloat— -a hun- 
dred and twenty thousand sailors in His Majesty ^s Navy 
alone, to say nothing of those aboard the merchant ships, 
coasters, colliers, and privateers — there were also so many 
women ashore, and so many hearts torn with anxiety at the 
news of every engagement. Custom hardens the heart, 
and no doubt many, even of those wdio loved their hus- 
bands tenderly, rose up in the morning and went to bed at 
night with no more than a simple prayer for his safety. 
You shall hear, however, one woman^s history, by which 
you may learn to feel for others. What am I, and wdiat 
have I done, that, while so many poor creatures were stricken 
with life-long grief, my shadow should have given place to 
sunshine, my sorrow to joy? 

The outer ward of the Castle was open every Sunday, be- 
cause the church stands in the south-east corner. It is the 
old Saxon church altered by the Normans. Formerly it 
was shaped like a cross; but one of the arms has long since 
fallen down. The nave is long and narrow', and rather 
dark, which pleased Mme. Claire, because it reminded her 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


33 


of the churches of Provenge, which, it seems, are all kept 
dark on account of the hot sunshine outside. On one side 
of the nave is hung up a great wooden picture of the Royal 
Arms, with the lion and the unicorn, to remind us of our 
loyalty; at the end is a gallery where the choir sit on Sun- 
days, and below the gallery an old stone font, ornamented, 
like the chancel, with round arches curiously interlaced, 
very pretty, though much worn with age. In the church- 
yard outside, there is an old yew among the graves. As 
for tombstones, they are few, because, when a villager dies, 
the mound which marks his grave is known as long as his 
memory lasts, which is as long as his children, or at most 
his grandchildren, survive him. What need of a tombstone 
when the man, obscure in his life, is clean forgotten: And 
how many, even of the great, are remembered longer than 
these villagers? 

To this church we came every Sunday; my father and I 
sitting in the pew on the right hand of the chancel, and 
after the prisoners’ return, Mme. Claire and Raymond 
with us. The left-hand pew was occupied by Mr. Phipps, 
retired purser, and his wife, a haughty lady, daughter of a 
Portsmouth purveyor to the fleet. In the long nave, never 
half filled, sat the villagers; the choir were in the gallery at 
the end, where we had music of violin, violoncello, and flute; 
in the transept were the soldiers of the garrison, near the 
church door, so that in case of trouble they might troop 
out quickly. 

There were no gentlefolk in the village, unless we count 
ourselves. I am well aware that people who sell fruit and 
vegetables from a market-boat, even < hough the head of the 
family be an Alderman, can not be regarded as belonging 
to the Quality. But if a woman is by marriage raised to 
her husband’s rank, it is beyond question that my own po- 
sition, had every one her rights, should be among the no- 
blest in the county, even though the boat still goes down 
the harbor (the profits being very far short of what they 
were in the war time), and though some persons, jealous of 
my connection with the old French nobility, sniff, as I am 
informed, at the pretensions of a market-gardener. Sniff- 
ing can not extinguish birth; and perhaps now' that we are 
in easier circumstances, and have succeeded to my cousin 
Tom^s estate, my son may one day resume the ancient title. 

Outside the gates, the village tavern, now so quiet the 
2 


34 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


week througli, except on Saturday evenings, .was crowded 
all day long, with soldiers drinking, smoking tobacco, and 
talking about the war. There was a canteen in the Castle, 
but the men preferred the tavern, because, I suppose, it 
was more home-like. In the evening there was a nightly 
gathering, or club, held in the upper room, where the 
officers, with a few gentlemen from the village, assembled 
to take their punch. ‘ 

The regiments in garrison in the year 1801, were the Royal 
Dorset Militia and the Denbigh Militia, under the com- 
mand of Colonel the Hon. George Pitt, afterward second 
Lord Rivers, at this time a man of fifty years. 

There were in the Castle at that date no fewer than eight 
thousand prisoners. It seems an incredible number to be 
confined in one place, but in this country altogether thirty- 
five thousand French prisoners were confined, of whom 
four thousand were at Forton, near Gosport; nine thou- 
sand in the hulks in the harbor, and I know not how many 
at Waltham, in Essex; at Isorman Cross: at Plymouth, 
and up the Medway. These men were not, it is true, all 
French sailors; but they comprised the very pick and flower 
of the French Navy. Why, the pretended peace of 1802, 
for what purpose was it concluded but to get back those 
sailors whom we fought again at- Trafalgar? As for ex- 
change, Tis true that France had some ten thousand En- 
glish prisoners, with a few thousand Hanoverians; but the 
advantage was all on their side. 

A great fortress, with eight thousand prisoners and a 
garrison of two thousand men within a stone^s throw of the 
village, yet their presence disturbed us little. In the day- 
time those prisoners who were on parole walked out of the 
Castle, it is true, but they made no disturbance, the com- 
mon sort, of course, were not suffered out on parole at all, 
so that we never saw them unless we went into the Castle. 
Their provisions were sent up the harbor from Portsmouth; 
it was by the same way that most of the visitors came to 
see them. Within the Castle, among the prisoners, were 
farriers, blacksmiths, tailors, shoe-makers, and tradesmen 
of every kind, so that they had no occasion to go outside 
for anything except for poultry, eggs, and fresh butter, 
which the farmers" wives brought to the Castle from the 
country round. As for the fare of the prisoners, it must 
be owned that it was of the simplest. Yet, how many a 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


35 


poor man in this country would be thankful could he look 
forward confidently to receive every day a pound and a half 
of bread and half a pound of beef, with vegetables! No 
beer or rum was served out, but those who had money might 
buy it in the canteen, and that of the best and at a cheap 
rate. 

All that we heard of the prisoners was the beating of the 
drums and the blowing of the whistles in the morning and 
evening. At night there were a hundred sentries posted 
round the Castle, almost close to each other, and every 
half hour the sergeant of the main guard w^ent his round 
and challenged the sentries. Then those in the village who 
were awake heard the hoarse answer of the men — “ All’s 
well ” — and the sergeant marched on, and you heard the 
same words a little further off, and so on, quite round the 
Castle, getting fainter as the sergeant reached the w'ater- 
gate, and becoming gradually louder as he returned to the 
main guard station outside the Castle gate. Also, at nine 
o’clock, the curfew bell was rung, when all lights had to be 
j^ut out, and the men turned in. Once there was a great 
scare, for the man whose duty it was to ring the bell, an old 
man named Clapham, fell asleep just before nine and woke 
up at midnight; thinking he had been sleeping only for a 
minute or two, he seized the rope and rang lustily. Then 
the garrison was hastily turned out, and the whole country- 
side, roused by the alarm of the midnight bell, and all the 
men in the village, and from Cosham, Wymering, Widley, 
Southwick, Fareham, and even Titchbrook, all with one 
consent came pouring into Porchester armed with whatever 
they could snatch, thinking it was a rising of the prisoners. 
At the head of the Porchester squad marched none other 
than our Sally, armed with a pitclifork and full of valor. 

They were at night confined to their quarters, some in 
wooden buildings erected in the outer court, some in the 
four towers of the inner Castle. Of these the largest, the 
keep, was divided into fourteen rooms, without counting 
the dungeons. Gloomy rooms they were, being lighted 
only by narrow loop-holes. 

The other towers were smaller; in one — it w'as whispered 
with shuddering — there was a dissecting-room, used by the 
French surgeons wFo were prisoners, and by the English 
regimental surgeon. As for the men’s quarters, it may be 
understood that these were not luxurious. Some of them 


36 


THE HOJA' KOSE. 


had hammocks, but when the press grew thicker, straw 
was thrown upon the floor for those to sleep upon for whom 
hammock room could not be found. Hard as was the lot of 
the Porchester prisoners, however, it was comfort com- 
pared with that of the men immured at Forton, where there 
was hardly room to stand in the exercise ground, and they 
lay at night as thick as herrings in a barrel; or with those 
who were confined on the hulks, which were used as pun- 
ishment ships, where the refractory and desperate were 
sent, and where half-rations brought them to reason and 
obedience. At Porchester the prisoners got at least plenty 
of fresh air, sunshine, and room to walk about. For the 
refractory, besides the hulks and half rations, there was a 
black hole, and if a man tried to escape, the sentries had 
orders, after calling upon him to stand, to fire if he did not 
obey. 

The prisoners, I have said, were mostly French sailors; 
but there were a good many soldiers among them, those 
taken, namely, in the conquest of the French colonies. 
There were also hundreds of privateers'’ men, as good sail- 
ors as any in the Kepublican Navy. Among them were 
many Vendeans who had been concerned in the rising; they 
thought to escape the penalty w'hich overtook so many of 
their comrades by going on board a privateer, but, being 
taken prisoners, jumped, as one may say, out of the fire 
into the fr}dng-pan. Among them also, at one time, were 
a thousand negroes, once slaves, but turned into soldiers by 
the French, and taken at the island of St. Vincent. The 
cold weather, however, killed most of these poor fellows 
very quickly. Another company of soldiers were the fel- 
lows intended for the invasion of Ireland, and taken off the 
Irish coast; astiirdy band of veterans they were. After the 
battle of Camperdown no fewer than one thousand eight 
hundred Dutch sailors were brought to the Castle; but 
these gallant Hollanders, who had been dragged into the 
war without any wish on their part to fight for France, 
mostly volunteered into our service, and became good Brit- 
ish sailors. 

'J.’he earliest prisoners were zealous Republicans, especial- 
ly those taken prisoners by Lord Howe after the “ First of 
June,^^ in 1794. These men used to show Their sentiments 
by dancing and singing '' Caira and ‘‘ La Carmagnole 
every night, and flinging their red caps in the air. 


JHE HOLY ROSE. 


37 


“ Le Due de York avait permis 
Que Dunkerque lui serait remis; 

Mais il a mal conte, 

Grace 3, vos canoniers. 

Dansons la Carmagnole; 

Vive le son, 

Vive le son — 

Dansons la Carmagnole — 

Vive le son 
Du canon.” 

Such is the ignorance of the British soldier that the men 
understood not one word, and as they only laughed and 
were amused at these demonstrations, the zeal of these Ke- 
publioans abated. 

After the defeat of the Spanish fleet by Admiral Jervis 
olf Cape St. Vincent, a great number of Spaniards were 
brought in, and these proved a very desperate lot indeed. 
It was a company of these fellows who laid a plot to escape, 
thinking to take one of the small vessels in the harbor and 
to get out to sea. They got some horseshoe files, ground 
them to a fine edge and a point and fitted them to handles, 
so as to make excellent daggers. Armed with these they 
got into the dungeons under the Queen^s Tower, and began 
to dig their way out. They were secured after a desperate 
fight, and sent on board the hulks. 

Among the officers the most remarkable was a certain 
General Tate, formerly of the Irish Brigade, who was sent 
with a legion composed entirely of galley-slaves to invade 
the coast of Wales — a wild and desperate attempt, resolved 
upon, one would think, with a view of getting rid of the 
galley-slaves and effecting a divei’sion of troops to a distant 
part of the country. ^J'he ships were wrecked at a 2)lace 
called Fishguard, and the men mutinied and spread about 
the country to rob and jfi under, until they were caught or 
shot down. Their commander was a fine old man, tall 
and erect, with long white hair, an hereditary enemy to 
Great Britain, but good company and a man of excellent 
manners. 

There were other notable prisoners. The wretch Tallien, 
who murdered seven hundred Royalists at Quiberon, was 
here for a short time. The General Baraguay dTIillicrs, 
was also here. Once there arrived a wdiole shipload of 
young ladies, taken on board a ship bound for the Isle of 
France, whither they were going in search of husbands. 


38 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


They were not detained long, and the ladies and gentry 
round about made their stay pleasant for them with dances 
and parties. One of them remained behind to marry an 
Englishman. There was also a certain black General, 
whose name I forget, but he had with him four wives; and 
there was a young fellow who, after six months in prison, 
fell ill, and was discovered to be a woman. Strange things 
happened among them. Thus one day, a certain French 
Captain, wdio had been morose for a long time, mounted to 
the roof of the keej) and threw himself off, being weary of 
his life. When they quarreled, wdiich was often, they 
fought duels with swords, for want of proper weapons, made 
out of bits of iron, filed and sharj^ened and tied to the end 
of sticks. And there was one man who was continually es- 
caping. He w'ould climb down the wall at night unseen by 
the sentries; then he would seek shelter in the Forest of 
Be re, and live by depredation among the poultry-yards and 
farm-houses till he was caught and sent back. Once he 
made his way to London, and called at the house of M. 
Otto, who was the French Commissioner for the prisoners. 

The daily life of the prisoners \vas ^vearisome and monot- 
onous. Some of them had money sent by their friends, 
with which they w^ould buy drink, tobacco, and clothes; 
most had none. They lounged aw^ay the hours talking idly; 
they gambled all day long, for wdiat stakes I know not, but 
they were as eager on the games as if there were thousands 
of pounds de23ending on the result. They played dominoes, 
backgammon, and draughts; they smoked as much tobacco 
as they could procure; few of them — I speak of the com- 
mon sort — knew how to read or write; their language was 
full of blasjohemy and oaths. The soldiers for the most 
part had abandoned all religion, but the sailors retained 
their former faith. The ha 2 ) 2 )iest among them were those 
wdio had a trade and could work at it. The carpenter, 
tailor, shoe-makers, cooks, and barbers, were always at 
work, and made considerable earnings. Besides the regular 
trades, there were arts by which large sums were made. 
The place in the summer w’as crowded with visitors, who 
came from all the country round — from Portsmouth, the 
Isle of Wight, Southampton, Lymington, Faversham; even 
from AVinchester and Cdiichester — to gaze upon the pris- 
oners. These people, after staring at the strange, wild 
creatures, unkempt and ragged, were easily persuaded to 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


39 


buy the pretty things which the more ingeuious^of them 
carved, such as toys, tobacco stoppers, and knickknacks 
out of wood, the simpler things of soft deal, but the more 
expensive out of some chance piece of oak or a pine-knot; 
out of beef-bones they made models of ships, che|^men, 
draughts, dominoes, and card-counters; put of dried straws 
they braided little boxes, dinner-mats, and all kinds of 
pretty, useless things; and some of them made thread-lace 
so beautifully that it was sold at a great price and carried all 
about the country, and all the lace-makers began to cry 
out, when the Government shopped that industry. 

Two priests were allowed to go in and out among them, 
and to celebrate the papistical mass, which was done every 
morning in a rained gallery called the .Chapel. It was 
boarded, glass was put into the window, a door was pro- 
vided, and an altar. Mme. Claire came daily, and many 
of the Vendean and Breton sailors. The rest stayed away, 
even on Sundays, and many, if the priest spoke to them of 
religion, answered with blasphemy and execration. Why 
should a horrid atheism be joined to Eepublican principles? 
Yet the United States of America and the Swiss States are 
not atheistical. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE FAMILY LUCK. 

The Arnolds — whose real name was Arnault, but it has 
thus been Englished — came to Porchester early in the year 
1794. AVhy they^ directed their steps to this village, I 
know not. They were saved, with many more, when the 
city of Toulon was taken by the French. Raymond, who 
was then fourteen years of age, has often described to me 
the terrible night when the French poured shot and shell 
upon the town, wliile the English fired the arsenal and de- 
stroyed those ships which they could not carry out. With 
his mother he was taken on board an English ship, being 
separated by the crowd from his father, who was unhappily 
left behind. On board the same ship was found his aunt, 
Mme. Claire, called in religion Sister Angelique. How she 
got there she knew not, nor could she ever remember, her 
wits being scattered for the time with the terrors, of the 
night, the awful flames, the roar of the cannon, and the 


40 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


bursting of the shells. When, however, she recovered her 
senses, it was found that she was still grasping the bag 
^\hioh contained the most precious of all the family treas- 
ures, namely, the Golden Rose, presented by a certain Pope, 
who lived, I know not how long ago — it was when the Popes 
were Avignon, instead of Rome— to one of the ladies of 
their house, then,'and until the Revolution, one of the most 
illustrious houses in the South of France. With the Rose 
the Pope gave his blessing, with the promise, it was said— 
though how a mere man, even the Pope of Rome, can pre- 
sume to make such a promise one knows not— that so long 
as the Rose remained with the family, the line should 
never cease. Certainly the line hath never ceased for five 
hundred years and more, though after the death of Ray- 
mond s father, he himself, a boy of thirteen, was the sole ' 
representative. As for the Rose itself, which is now in my 
possession and kept locked up, it is a strange thing to look 
at, being the imitation of a rose-bush about eighteen inches 
high in pure red gold. Koone would guess, without being 
told, that it was intended for a rose-bush, for the trunk 
and branches are all straight and stiff, as much like a real 
rose-bush as a tree in a sampler is like a real tree. It is 
provided with leaves, also of gold, and with flowers and 
buds, winch were set with all kinds of precious stones, small 
in size but beautiful in color, such as rubies, emeralds, sap- 
pliires, and niany others whose names I know not. I sup- 
pose there IS no other example in the whole of His Mai- 
estv s realms of such a Rose. I have heard that the King 
ot .Spam or the Emperor of Austria may possibly haye one, 
but probably there is no other Holy Rose in the possession 
ot a private family. . ^ 

When they were landed at Portsmouth, these fugitives 
hud nothing; neither money, nor clothes, nor friends One 
ot them was a lady who knew nothing of the world, having 
been for the most of her life in a convent; another was a 
hid} 'vhose anxiety for her husband was quickly driving 
her mad; and the third was only a boy. A more pitiful 

France, not even counting 
that boat-load of unfortunate eimgres which was found in 
Southampton ^ ater one morning, starving and penniless, 
and almost naked. There was nothing by which these 
ladies could earn their bread, because they could do noth- 
ing. \et they were richer than any of Gie rest, because 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


41 


they had with them the Golden Rose. I know not exactly 
when they learned the truth about the hetul of their house 
thus left to the mercies of the Revolutionists, but it was 
after they landed at Portsmouth, and before they went to 
Porchester. The news was brought to them by an eye- 
witness. The Republican Army, masters of the cfty, made 
the whole of the remaining inhabitants prisoners. And 
they shot all those, including the Comte d'Eyragues, who 
were of rank and position. Against him, it was said, a cer- 
tain man, who had been a dependent or humble friend, 
gave information, so that his fate was at once decided, and 
he was shot. And when this news arrived, his widow went 
out of her mind, and, unlike Mme. Claire, who had only 
been scared, she never recovered. 

“ Ladies,^’ said the Vicar of Porchester, when he was 
first called to consider their case, ‘‘ there is no alternative. 
You must sell this precious relic. 

He addressed both ladies, but only one heard and under- 
stood him. 

‘‘ Alas!^^ cried that one, ‘‘ if it were not for Raymond, 
I would rather starve than part with it. And to let it go 
is to imperil the poor boy^s life, since there is none other 
to continue the family. 

“ You may send it to London,” said the Vicar, to be 
sold to some great nobleman as a wonderful curiosity. Or 
you may sell it to a merchant for the value of its gold and 
precious stones. Or, if you prefer, you might sell it little 
by little. Thus you might keep the Rose itself for a long 
time by selling the jewels of the flowers. See, some of the 
stones are large and valuable. Take me out, and let me 
sell it for your immediate wants. When the money is ex- 
hausted you can give me another, and so on. Perhaps, 
long before you come to an end, your fortunes will change; 
the Republic will be overthrown, and the emigrh re- 
turned. 

“ AJas!’^ she cried again. ‘‘ The jewels are a part of 
the Holy Rose, and they have been blessed by the I^ope 
himself. Is it not the sin of sacrilege:^^ 

“ On the contrary, Madame, the Vicar replied, smiling. 
‘‘ I suppose that the blessing of the Pope has never before 
proved of so practical a value. 

I remember very well the day of their arrival, for , the 
news had spread abroad that some Erench people were go- 


4.2 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


ing to live in Mr. Phipps's cottage, and I went out to see 
them come. They were brought up in a boat from Ports- 
mouth and landed close to the water-gate of the Castle. 
(There were no prisoners in the Castle as yet.) The Vicar 
was with them, and led them through the Castle to the 
village. You may be sure we all stared, never thinking 
that we should behold on English ground so strange a 
creature as a nun. l^et here was one, dressed in a blue 
cloak and blue frock, with a white starched hood or cap. 
She carried a bag in her hand, and round her neck was a 
gold chain with a crucifix. On one side of her walked our 
Vicar, who, I suppose, had persuaded them to seek this 
asylum; and on the other a lady richly dressed, though 
there were the stains of the voyage and rough weather upon 
her fine clothes. The nun was pale, and walked with her 
eyes downcast; this lady tossed her head and laughed, talk- 
ing without cessation. She laughed because she was out of 
her mind, having been driven mad, we learned, by terror 
and the loss of her husband; and she talked because she 
believed that her husband was still living, and that he was 
always witli her day and night. This belief she maintained 
till her death, and certainly nothing happier could have 
befallen the poor lady. Very soon those who went to the 
house began to believe that the spirit of her husband was 
permitted to remain on earth for his wife's protection; and 
though one may not be believed, I dare assert that the 
haunted house had no terrors for me, though a ghost in 
my own room would have driven me mad with fear. Be- 
hind the ladies walked a handsome boy black-eyed and with 
black hair. Little did I think how that boy was to become 
the whole joy of my life. 

There was never, I am certain, a household more frugal 
than this, The two ladies seemed to live altogether upon 
bread and salad, or upon bread dipped in oil; while Madame 
Claire rigorously kept all the fasts of her Church (though 
none of the feasts), abstaining, on those days, from all food 
except that which is absolutely necessary. They kept fowls, 
the eggs of wliich were reserved for Kaymond. They lived 
in a little cottage at three pounds a year. As for their 
clothes, Madame Claire mended them, washed and ironed 
them; though sometimes Paymond was in need of. boots 
and coats, when money must be found. Yet, with all this 
frugality, the stones of the Holy Pose slowly diminished; 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


43 


its flowers began to assume a shabby and (so to speak) an 
autumnal aspect; for the years went on, and the Kepublic 
was not overthrown, nor were the emigres invited to return 
to their property. 

When we became friends, which was very soon, the boy 
taught me his language, and I taught him mine. Which 
was the apter scholar I know not. He was three years 
older than I, but was never ashamed to play with a girl. 
When he had no work to do — either lessons for the Vicar, 
or work in the garden where they grew their salads — he 
would go with me, either to row down the creek among the 
men-o^-war in the harbor, or to ramble in the woods be- 
yond Portsdown Hill. And thus we continued companions 
and friends, after we were grown out of boy and girl and 
before we became lovers — though 1 believe we were lovers 
from the beginning. 

Raymond was not a bookish boy, nor did he take to the 
learning with which the Vicar would have willingly sup- 
plied him in ample quantities had he desired. But though 
he grew up a gentle young man, as a boy he excelled in all 
kind of manly games, and was ready to wrestle, run, or 
leap with any of his own age, or to fight with any who 
called him French Frog, or Johnny Crapaud. Oonse^ 
quently he received the respect which is always paid to the 
possessor of courage. It is strange to note how boys will 
sometimes become enemies and rivals from the very first. 
This was the case with my cousin Tom and Raymond. 
Torn was the stronger, but Raymond the more active. 
Tom spoke behind Raymond’s back of French impudence, 
French presumption, and French brag; but I never heard 
that he allowed himself those liberties before Raymond’s 
face. And I well remember one 20th of July, which is 
Portsdown Fair, how, in the sports upon the Running 
Walks at the back of Richardson’s Theater, Raymond laid 
Tom fair and flat upon his back at wrestling, so that he 
limped away shaken all over and growling about foul play, 
though it was as fair a throw as was ever seen. 

Later on it pleased Tom to describe himself as my wooer, 
which was ridiculous, because I never could have given a 
thought to Tom, even if Raymond had not been there be- 
fore him. Who could endure the caresses of a man who 
was always longing to be where cocks are fought, badgers 
drawn, prize-fights fought, races run, and drink flowing; 


44 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


whose clothes smelled of the stable, and whose language 
was that of grooms, hostlers, and jockeys r It pleased him, 
too, in spite of the lesson taught him at Portsdown Fair, 
to affect a contempt for Raymond. He laughed scornfuly 
- when he spoke of him. One Englishman,"" he said, "‘ is 
worth three Frenchmen. Everybody knows that. Wait, 
Moll}^ till I give him a basting."" Yet the day of that 
basting did not arrive. And I suppose that this threaten- 
ing promise was made to none but myself, otherwise Ray- 
mond would have been told; in which case it is certain the 
thing would have been brought to a head. 

Very likely it made Tom happier to believe that he could 
administer that basting if he should choose. As you will 
see presently, the moment actually chosen by him for the 
purpose was unfortunate. 

It w'as difficult for the emigres and for their sons to find 
employment by wdiich to make their livelihood. For 
though in this country every calling is open to all, so that 
many, even of our Bishops and Judges, have been poor 
boys to begin, yet a young man"s choice is generally re- 
stricted by the circumstances of his birth and condition. 
Thus, the son of the village carpenter succeeds his father, 
and the man ^vllo hath a good shop bequeaths it to his son. 
But if a young man asj)ires to a profession he must be able 
to spend a great deal of money in order to learn its secrets, 
and to be received by some learned society as a member. 
Nothing can be done without money or interest. If he 
W'ould be a farmer, he must be able to lay out money 
upon stock and implements; if a tradesman, he must be 
first apprenticed and afterward buy and stock his shop; if 
he be a clergyman he must be able to buy a living, unless 
he find a patron; if he becomes a soldier, he must buy his 
commission; if a sailor, he must bribe some one in place, 
or remain forever a midshipman; if he W'ould find a Gov- 
ernment office, even of the humblest kind, he must have 
interest to procure it for him, or money to buy it. 

Some of them, therefore, became teachers, because 
teaching is the only kind of work which requires no money, 
apprenticeship, interest, or bribery. They taught their 
own language for the most part, or the accomplishments 
wdiich they were best qualified to undertake, namely, danc- 
ing, music, deportment, drawing, and so forth. The more 
ingenious painted pictures, or carved statues; some com- 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


45 


posed music; some carved in wood and ivory; some became 
conjurors, ventriloquists, tumblers, or circus riders; a good 
many became cooks or barbers; some, I have heard, be- 
came gamblers by profession, and if they belonged to the 
better sort, played cards at clubs, if to the baser, held their 
tables at fairs and races. Some turned thieves and rogues, 
but these were few. A great many went home again as 
soon as it was safe, though they did not get back their 
lands. Some went to America, but I know not what they 
did there. Whatever they did it was always considered as 
a make-shift against the day when they should return and 
be restored to their own property. 

As for liaymond, it was necessary that he should work 
for his bread as soon as possible. Fortunately, though he 
loved not books, he was continually drawing and painting. 
It is an art by which some men live, either by teaching or 
selling their pictures. “Let the boy,'’ said the Vicar, 
“ cultivate this gift, so that, perhaps, if the need still ex- 
ists, it may provide him the means of an honorable liveli- 
hood until the day when you shall happily, under Frovi- 
dence, return to your own." 

In short, liaymond was put under a master at Gosport 
until the age of nineteen, when he had learned all that 
could be taught him. Then, because pupils were not to 
be found in Porchester, he went to Portsmouth, and began 
to teach to such of the young officers as wished to learn the 
arts of drawing and painting, and making plans and maps, 
especially plans of fortifications. 

But the time went on, and the successes of the Pepubli- 
can armies did not hold out much hope that the return of 
the Nobles would soon take place. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE OTHER CAMP. 

“ Huzza, Molly!" cried my cousin, his face full of exul- 
tation. “ 'Tis now certain that we shall have peace. I 
have been drinking the health of Boney, whom I shall ever 
love for calling home all starving Frenchmen." 

“ Will the emigres go home, too, Tom?" 

“ Ay, they will all go. What? Ho you think we shall 
suffer them to stay any longer, the ragged, greedy blood- 


46 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


suckers, when there are honest Britons out of work? Not 
so. They must pack. 

“ Will their property be restored to them, thenr^^ 

‘‘ Nay, I know not! ^Tis thought at the tavern that 
something will be done for them, but I know not'what. 
Well, Molly, so you will lose your fine lover. 

“ Never mind my tine lover, Tom. 

‘‘ Nay, I mind him not a button!^^ Here he put one 
hand in his pocket, and with the other shook his cudgel 
playfully. “ Molly, he is a lucky lad. Another week and 
he would have had a basting. Ay, in another week at 
furthest I must have drubbed him.'’^ 

Oh, Tom! how long has that drubbing been threat- 
ened? Nay, it were a pity, if Raymond must go, for him 
never to know your truly benevolent intentions. I will tell 
him this evening. 

“As you please, my girl; as you please,-’^ he replied, 
carelessly, and sauntered away, but returned back after a 
few steps. “ Molly, he said, “ I think it would be kind- 
est to let the poor man go in ignorance of what would have 
befallen him. What? He can not help being a French- 
man. DonT let him feel his misfortune more than is 
necessary. 

This was thoughtful of Tom. 

“ Then, Tom, I will not tell him. But it is for your 
sake and to spare you, not him, the drubbing. Oh, Tom, 
he would break every bone in your body; but if you mean 
what you say, and are really not afraid of him, why not tell 
him what you have told nie?^^ 

“ Well, Molly, you can say wha.t you like; but you are 
not married yet, my girl. You are not married yet.'’^ 

I did not tell Raymond, because 1 think it is wicked for 
a woman to set men a-fighting, though it is commonly done” 
by village girls; but 1 had no anxiety on the score of Tom’s 
desire to baste anybody. I might have felt some anxiety 
had I refiectecl that the ways of a man when in liquor can 
not always be foretold. 

Raymond thought little of Tom at this time. The coii- 
ditions of the peace left him, with the Royal Family of 
France and all the emigres, out in the cold; one can not 
deny, though he is now an Englishman by choice, and con- 
tented to forget his native country, that he was then much 
cast down. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


47 


For ten years/ ^ he said, ‘‘our lives have seemed an 
interruption; we have been in parenthesis; whatever we 
did it was but as a stop-gap. We have endured hardship 
patiently, because it would pass. Great Britain was fight- 
ing for us; well, all that is over. The Government has 
abandoned us; the Revolution has succeeded; there will be 
no more Kings or Nobles in France. 

Yes, peace was made, and the French Princes, the Roy- 
alists, and the French Nobles, who thougfht we should never 
lay down our arms until the old state of things was restored, 
found that they were abandoned. To me, because I now 
took my ideas from Raymond, it seemed shameful, and I 
blushed for my country. But one can now plainly see, 
that when an enterprise is found to be impossible the honor 
of a country can not be involved in prosecuting it any fur- 
ther. It took twelve years more of war for France to 
understand the miseries she had brought upon herself by 
driving away her Princes. As soon as the opportunity ar- 
rived Great Britain led them back again. 

•’Twas no great thing of a peace after the expenditure of 
so much blood and treasure. England, we learned, was to 
keej) certain possessions taken from the Dutch, and to give 
back those she had taken from the French. But the 
strength of France was so enormously improved, Bona- 
I)arte being master in Spain, Italy, Portugal, and I know 
not what beside, that every one prophesied the breaking out, 
before long, of another and a more prolonged war. This, 
in fact, speedily happened, as everybody knows. 

The general joy, however, was wonderful. So great was 
it in London that the people fought and struggled for the 
honor of taking out the horses from the carriage of the 
French Embassador — he was a certain Colonel Lauriston, 
of English ancestry, and yet a favorite with Bonaparte — 
and dragging it themselves with shouts and cheers. The 
City of London and every other town in the country were, 
we heard, illuminated at night with the lighting of bon- 
fires, the firing of squibs, and the marching of mobs about 
the streets. At Portsmouth they received the intelligence 
with more moderate gratitude, because, although it is with- 
out doubt a grievous thing to consider the continual loss of 
so many gallant men, yet it must be remembered that a 
seaport flourishes in time of war, but languishes in time of 
peace. In time of war there happen every day arrivals and 


48 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


departures of sliips and troops, the advance of prize money, 
the engagement of dock-yard hands, the concourse of people 
to see the troops and the fleets, the fitting out and victual- 
ing of the vessels, all of which keep the worthy folk full of 
business, so that they quickly make their fortunes, build 
and buy houses, and retire to the country and a garden. 

At Porchester the landlord of the tavern cursed the peace 
which would take from him all his custom. He, however, 
was the only man who did not hail the news with pleasure. 
As for the Castle, not only the prisoners, but the garrison 
as well — no soldier likes being converted into a prison 
warder — rejoiced. They made a great bonfire in the outer 
court — beautiful it was to see the keep and the walls and 
the church lit up at night by the red blaze of the flames; 
soldiers and prisoners, arm in arm, danced round the fire, 
shouting aud singing. There were casks of liquor sent in, 

I know not by whom, and the serving out of the drink 
greatly increased the general joy. 

After this, and until the prisoners were all gone, it was 
truly wonderful to see the change. First of all the soldiers 
with the loaded muskets were removed from the walls, and 
there were no more sentries, except at the gates. Why should 
])risoners be watched who would certainly make no attempt to 
escape, now that the vessels which were to carry them home 
were 'preparing for them? They were no longer enemies, but 
comrades, and it was strange to mark the transition from 
foe to friend. Our journals, we heard, in like manner 
ceased to abuse the First Consul, and began to find much 
to admire — the first time for nearly ten years — in the char- 
acter of the French. Yet these prisoners had done nothing 
to mak^ them our friends, which shows that Providence 
never designed that men should cut each other^s throats 
only because they speak different languages. And from 
this day until their departure the prisoners were allowed 
freely to go outside the Castle walls, a privilege which 
hitherto had been granted to few. 

A strange wild crew they were who now trooped out of 
the Castle gates and swarmed in the village street. Some 
limped from old wounds, some had lost an arm, a leg, or 
an eye; nearly all were ragged and barefoot. They wore 
their hair hanging long and loose about their shoulders; 
some had monstrous great beards, and most wore long 
mustaches, which impart an air of great ferocity. Whether 


THE HOLY KOSL. 


49 


they were in rags or not, whatever their condition, one and 
all bore themselves with as much pride, and walked as gal- 
lantly as if they were so many conquering heroes, and at 
the sight of a woman would toss up their chins, pull their 
mustaches, stick out their chests, and strut for all the 
world like a turkey-cock, and as if they were all able and 
willing to conquer the heart of eveiy woman. They did 
no harm in the village that I heard of; they could not buy 
anything, because they had no money, and they were too 
proud to beg. One day, however, I saw a little company 
of them looking over our palings into the garden, where as 
yet there was little but blossom and the first pushing of the 
spring leaves. I thought that in their eyes I saw a yearn- 
ing after certain herbs and roots which every Frenchman 
loves. It was long since these poor fellows had tasted 
onions, garlic, or any savory herbs. I may confess that I 
called on the men and made them happy with as many 
strings of onions and other things as they could carry, a gift 
which, with the addition of a little oil and vinegar, sent 
them away completely happy. 

They were now eager to get home again, although for 
many, Pierre told us, the exchange would be for the worse. 

The prison rations, he said, “ are better than the fare 
which many of us v/ill enjoy when we get home. In a 
campaign the soldiers have to fight on much less. Then if 
there is to be no more fighting, most of the army will be dis- 
banded, and the men will betake themselves again to the 
plow or to their trades. But if a man goes for a soldier he 
forgets his trade, his hand and eye are out; then he will 
get bad wages with long hours, the condition of a slave — I 
call it nothing else — and none of the glory of war.'’^ Pierre 
spoke of glory as if every private soldier who took part in 
a victory was "to be remembered ever afterward as an im- 
mortal hero. ‘‘Oh! I deny not that there are some, even 
some Frenchmen, who love not war. Yet I confess that to 
them the peace is the most welcome news in the world. 
Whatr Is every soldier a hero? Does every man love the 
hard ground better than a soft bed? Is the roaring of 
artillery a pleasing sound for every one? Not so; some men 
are by nature intended to drive quills, and weigh out spices, 
and dress the ladies^ heads. There must be grocers and 
barbers as well as soldiers. 

“ And what will you do, Pierre? asked Paymond. 


50 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


‘‘ I hope to remain in the army. But how long will the 
peace continue? Think you our great General is one who 
will be contented to remain quiet while a single country re- 
mains unconquered? He is another Alexander the Great, 
he marches from conquest to conquest; he is a Hannibal 
w’ho knows no Capua. There are still two countries wdiich 
dare to hold up their heads in defiance of him — Great 
Britain and Russia. He will humble both.^^ 

‘‘ VV^hat! You look to overrun the world?^^ 

‘‘ Consider, he said, ‘‘ Prussia — Germany — Holland — 
Italy— these are at his feet. Spain is already in his grasp. 
Denmark — Norway— Sweden — all are within his reach. 
What is England — little England— against so mighty a 
combination? What is Russia with all her Cossacks? The 
peace is concluded in order that w^e may make more vessels 
to destroy your trade and take your fleets. AVhen your ships 
are swepl off the ocean nothing remains except humble 
submission. Look, therefore, for another war as soon as 
we are ready, and prepare for the inevitable supremacy of 
France. Great Britain reduced, Bonaparte will then lead 
his victorious troops to Russia, which will offer nothing 
more than a show of resistance to his great army. When 
all the countries are his, and all the Kings dethroned, there 
will be seen one vast Republic, with Paris for its capital, 
and Bonaparte for the First Consul. London, Constanti- 
nople, Rome, Vienna, and Moscow, will be of no more im- 
portance than Marseilles and Lyons. All wdll be Paris. 

Very good, indeed,^ ^ said Raymond, “ and then your 
First Consul will, I suppose, sit down and take his rest?^^ 

“ No. There will remain the United States of America. 
India will be ours alreadj" by right of our conquest of Great 
Britain, and all the East will be ours because we shall have 
overrun Spain, Holland, and Turkey; also South America 
and Mexico. The L^nited States will be the last to bow the 
neck. Bonaparte will fit out three great armaments, one 
to Canada, one to New Y^ork, and one to Baltimore. The 
Republicans of America will fight at first for their inde- 
pendence. Then they will be compelled to yield, and wdll 
join in the great confederacy, and from one end to the 
other the whole world will be part of the great French 
Republic. 

“ There are still Persia, the Pacific Ocean, and China. 

“ The Pacific will be ours because there will be no ships 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


51 


afloat but those which fly the French flag. Persia is but a 
mouthful. To conquer China will be but a military prom- 
enade.'’^ 

“ And after this the mgn of peace, I suppose 

Pierre sighed. “ Yes/’ he said, when there will be 
nothing left to tight for I suppose there will be peace. But 
by that time I shall perhaps have become a General of 
Division, or very likely I shall be old and no longer fit for 
war. Oh,” his eyes kindled, ‘‘ think of the universal 
French Republic! No more Kings, no more priests, all 
men free and equal — ” 

^‘Why,” Raymond interrupted, ‘‘as for Kings, the 
peace leaves them every man upon his throne; and as for 
priests, Bonaparte’s convention with the Pope brings 
them back to you. In place of your fine Republican prin- 
ciples you have got a military despotism; it must be a 
grand thing when every man is free and equal to be drilled 
and kicked and cuffed into shape, in order to become a 
soldier.” 

“ Why,” said Pierre, “ I grant you that we did not ex- 
pect the Concordat. Well, the women are too strong for 
us. But the men are emancipated; they have got no re- 
ligon left; while, for your military despotism, how else can 
we establish our Universal Republic: And what better use 
can you make of a man than to drill him and put him into 
the ranks? But wait till the conquest of the world is com- 
plete, and the reign of Universal Liberty begins.” 

“ I stand,” said Raymond, “ on the side of order, which 
means authority, rank, religion, and a monarchy.” 

“ And I,” said Pierre, “ on the side of Liberty, which 
means government by the people and the abolition of the 
privileged class. I am a son of the people, and you, my 
friend, are an aristo. Therefore, we are in opposite 
camps.” 

“ Your Republic has her hands red with innocent blood, 
and her pocket full of gold which she has stolen. These 
are the first-fruits of government by the people. ” 

“We have made mistakes; our men were mad at first. 
But we are now in our right senses, Raymond; for every 
man equal rights and an equal chance, and the prizes to the 
strongest, and no man born without the fold of Universal 
Brotherhood. What can your old Order show to compare 
with this.^” 


52 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


His eyes glowed, and his dark cheek flushed. He would 
have said more, but refrained, because he would not pain 
his friend who belonged to the other side. W hen I think 
of Pierre I love to recall him as he stood there, brave and 
handsome. Ah, if all the children of the people were like 
him, then an Universal Republic might not be so dreadful 
a misfortune for the human race! 

‘‘ Englishmen, at least, are free,’^ said Raymond. 
'‘Shake hands, my brother. You shall go out and fight 
for your cause. Whether you win or whether you lose, 
you shall win honor and promotion. Captain Gavotte — 
Colonel Gavotte — General Gavotte— Field Marshal Gavotte. 
I shall sit in peace at home, under the protection of the 
Union Jack — which may God protect. 


CHAPTER V. 

tom/s unfortunate mistake. 

It was the evening after this conversation that my cousin 
Tom made so. unfortunate a mistake, and received a lesson 
so rude that it cured him forever of speaking disrespectfully 
concerning the strength and courage of Frenchmen. The 
affair was partly due to me; I do not say that it was my 
fault, because I should behave in exactly the same way 
again were it possible for such a thing to happen now. 

My cousin rode into the' village in the afternoon, as was 
his custom. Finding that there were no wagers being de- 
cided, cocks fought, or any other amusement going on at 
the tavern, he took a glass or two and walked up the street 
to call upon me. 

“ Well, Molly,^^ he began, sitting down as if he intended 
to spend the afternoon with me, “ when does your French- 
man go? Ha! he is in luck to go so soon.^^ 

“ Tom,” I said, “ I forbid you ever again to mention 
the word Frenchman in my presence. Speak respectfully 
of a man who is your better, or go out of the house. ” 

“ Suppose,” he said, “ that I will neither speak respect- 
fully of him nor go out of the house? What then. Miss 
Molly? Respectfully of a beggarly Frenchman who teaches 
—actually teaches drawing to anybody he can get for a 
pupil! Respectfully! Molly, you make me sick. Give 
me a glass of your cowslip, cousin.” 


THE HOLY LOSE. 


53 


“ Well, Tom, I am nofc strong enough to turn you out; 
but I can leave you alone in the room. 

I turned to do so, but he sprung up and stood between 
me and the door. 

‘‘ JS'ow, Molly, let us understand one another. Send 
this fellow to the right-about^^ — he pronounced it, being 
a little disguised, rile-abow; “send him away, I say, and 
take a jolly Briton. 

“ Let me pass, Tom.'’^ 

“No. Why, I always meant to marry you, my girl, 
and so I will. I)o you think I will let you go for a sneakin^, 
cowardly — ’’ Here he held out his arms. “ Come and 
kiss me, Molly. There’s only one that truly loves thee, 
and that is Tom Wilgress. Come, I say.” 

At this I was frightened, there being no one in the house 
whom I could call. Fortunately, I thought of Sally, and, 
running to the window, I opened it and cried out to her to 
come quickly. 

Tom instantly sunk into a chair. 

“ Sally,” I said, “ I do not think I shall want you; but 
have you your rope’s-end with you?” 

“ Ay, ay. Miss,” she replied, shaking that weapon, and 
looking curiously at Tom, whom she had never loved. 

“ I do hot think,” I repeated, “ that we shall want the 
rope’s-end. Are you afraid of my cousin, Sally?” 

“ Afraid! I should like to see any man among them all 
that I am afraid of.” 

“ Then wait at the door, Sally, until I call you or until 
he goes. ” 

“Now, Tom,” I went on, “I am not without a pro- 
tector, as you see. You may go. Why, you poor, bluster- 
ing creature, you are afraid — ^yes, you are afraid to say the 
half in Baymond’s presence that you have said to me. Fy! 
a coward, and try to wile a girl from her lover. ” 

“ Well — I can not fight a woman. You and your rope’s- 
end,” he grumbled. “ Say what you like, Molly.” 

“ I will say no more to you. Sally, show him the rope’s- 
end, if you please.” She held it up and nodded. “ Sally 
is as strong as any man, Tom, and I will ask her to lay 
that rope across your shoulders if you ever dare to come 
here again without my leave. Do you understand?” 

“ I am a coward, am I? I am afraid to say the half to 


54 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


Raymond, am I? Molly, suppose I say all this and more — 
suppose I thrash him and bring him on his knees? 

“ Well, Tom, if you can do this you have no need to fear 
Sally and her rope’s-end. 

He went away, making pretense of going slowly and of 
his own accord. Sally followed him to the garden gate, 
and reported that he had returned to the tavern, where I 
suppose that he spent the rest of the day smoking tobacco 
and drinking brandy and water or punch, in order to get 
that courage which we call Dutch. 

In the interval between the signing of the peace and the 
return of the prisoners, Pierre spent his whole time in the 
company of Madame Claire and in her service. lie was 
clever and ingenious with his fingers, always making and 
contriving things, so that the cottage furniture, which was 
scanty indeed, began to look as if it was all new. 

On this day Tom remained at the tavern till late in the 
evening, and left it at eight o’clock, coming out of it, hat 
on head and riding-whip in hand, with intent to order his 
horse and ride home. Now by bad luck he saw, or thought 
he saw, no other than his enemy Raymond coming slowly 
down the road, the night being clear and fine and a moon 
shining, so that it was well-nigh as bright as day. It was, 
in fact, Pierre returning to the Castle, but, dressed as he 
was, in a brown civilian coat, and being at all times like 
Raymond, it was not wonderful that, at a little distance, 
Tom should mistake him for Raymond. That he did not 
discover his mistake on getting to close quarters was due to 
the drink that was in him. 

‘‘Ho, Johnny Frenchman! Johnny Frog!” he cried. 
“ Stop, I say; you’ve got to reckon with me.” 

Pierre stopped. 

“ Don’t try to run away,” Tom continued. “ We have 
met at last, where there are no women to call upon.” 
Raymond, to be sure, never had asked the assistance of any 
woman; but that mattered nothing. “Ha! would you 
run? Would you run?” 

Pierre was standing still, certainly not attempting to run, 
and wondering what was the meaning of this angry gentle- 
man dancing about before him in the road, brandishing his 
riding- whip, and calling him evidently insulting names. 

“Ha!” said Tom, getting more courage, “ a pretty fool 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


55 


you will look when I have done with you; a very pretty 
fool. 

These words he strengthened in the usual way, and con- 
tinued to shake his riding- whip. 

Pierre still made no reply. The man was threatening 
him, that was certain from the use of gestures common to 
all languages; but he waited to brandish his riding- whip. 

^‘ French frog — Johnny Orapaud. I will flog you till 
you go on your knees and swear that you will never again 
dare to visit Molly. Ha! I will teach you to interfere with 
a true-born Briton. 

He shook the whip in Pierre^ s face, and began to use the 
language customary with those who are, or wish to appear, 
beyond themselves with rage. It was, however, disconcert- 
ing that the Frenchman made no reply, and showed no 
sign of submission. For Pierre perceived that he had no 
choice but to fight unless he would tamely submit to be 
horsewhipped. Yet for the life of him he could not under- 
stand why this man was attacking him. It could not be 
for his money, because he had none; nor for any conduct 
of his which could give the man any pretext, because he 
had never seen him before. 

The French are not good at boxing, they do not practice 
fighting with their fists as boys, they have no prize-fights, 
and in a street quarrel I have heard that the knife is used 
where our people would strip and fight it out. For this 
reason it is thought that they are not so brave as the En- 
glish, and It is sometimes thrown in their teeth that they 
can not hit out straight, and know not how to use the left 
hand in a fight. 

As for their bravery, we are foolish to impugn it, be- 
cause we have fought the French in many a field and in 
many a sea-battle, and we do ourselves a wrong when we 
lessen the valor of our foes. Besides, it is very well known 
to all the world, whatever we may say, that the French 
are a very brave and gallant nation. Though they can not 
box, they can fence; though they do not fight with fists, 
they can wrestle as well as any men in England. And in 
their fights they have a certain trick which requires, I am 
told, a vast amount of dexterity and agility, but is most 
effective in astonishing and disconcerting an enemy who 
does not look for it. Suppose, for instance, that a man 
went out to box in ignorance of so common a trick as the 


56 


THE HOL\ ROSE. 


catching of your adversary's head with the left hand and 
pommeling his face with the right. With what surprise 
and discomfiture would that maneuver be followed! Or 
again, imagine the surprise of an untaught man who stood 
up with a master in wrestling, to receive one of those 
strokes which suddenly throw a man upon his back. Pierre, 
you see, was dexterous in this French trick, of v Inch Tom 
had never even heard. 

The young Frenchman, therefore, perceiving that this 
was more than a mere drunken insult and menace, assumed 
the watchful attitude of one who intends to fight. He had 
nothing in his hand, not even a walking-stick, and was, 
moreover, of slighter build and less weight than his en- 
emy. But if Tom had been able to understand it, his at- 
titude, something like that of a tiger about to spring, his 
eyes fixed upon his adversary's face, his hands ready, his 
body as if on springs, might have made him, even at the 
last moment, hesitate. 

With another oath Tom raised the whip and brought it 
down upon Pierre’s head. Had the whip reached its desti- 
nation there would probably have been no need to say more 
about Pierre. But it did not, because he leaped aside and 
the blow fell harmless. And then an astonishing thing- 
occurred. 

The Frenchman did not strike his assailant with his fist, 
nor did he close with him, nor did he try to wrench his 
whip from him, nor did he curse and swear, nor did he go 
on his knees and cry for mercy. Any of these things might 
have been expected. The last thing that could have been 
expected was what happened. 

The Frenchman, in fact, sprung into the air — Tcfm 
afterward swore that he leaped up twenty feet — and from 
that commanding position administered upon Tom’s right 
cheek, not a kick, or anything like a kick, but so shrewd a 
box with the flat of the left boot that it fairly knocked him 
over. He sprung to his feet again, but again tliis aston- 
ishing Frenchman leaped up and gave him a second blow 
on the left cheek with the flat of his right boot, which again 
rolled him over. This time he did not try to get up, nor 
did he make the least resistance when his enemy seized the 
whip and began to belabor him handsomely with it, in such 
sort that Tom thought he was going to be murdered. Pres- 
ently, however, the Frenchman left off, and threw away 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


57 


the whip. Tom, taking heart, sat up with astonishment in 
his face. His enemy was standing over him with folded 
arms. 

‘‘ You kicked/^ said Tom. ‘‘ Yah! you kicked. You 
kicked your man in the face. Call that fair fightingr^^ 

Pierre answered never a "word. 

“ I say/^ Tom repeated, “ that you kicked. Call that 
fair fighting?^^ 

Pierre made no reply. Then Tom reached for his hat, 
which had been knocked off at the beginning, and for his 
whip, which was beside him on the ground. He put on 
his hat, and laid the whip across his knees, but he did not 
get up. 

Very well — very well,^^ he said. ‘‘ I shall know what 
to expect another time. You doiPt play that trick twice. 
No matter now. My revenge will come.^^ 

Still Pierre moved not. 

‘M^ou think I care twopence because you bested me with 
your tricks? Well, I donT, then. Not I. Who would 
be ashamed of being knocked down by a kick on the head? 
Well; all the country shall know about it. What? Do 
you think I am afraid of you: Promise not to kick, and 
come on.^^ 

Although he vapored in this way, he took care not to 
get up from the ground. 

But Pierre made no reply, and after waiting a few min- 
utes to see if his adversary was satisfied — to be sure he had 
every reason to express himself fully satisfied — he turned, 
and went on his way to the Castle gates. 

Then Tom rose slowly, and, without brushing the mud 
and dirt of the road from his clothes, returned to the tav- 
ern, where the officers and gentlemen were sitting ydth 
lighted candles. 

‘‘ Why, Tom,^^ said the Colonel, who was among them, 

what is the matter, man? You have got a black eye.'’^ 

“ Hang it,^^ said another, it seems to me that he has 
got two black eyes, and he has had a roll in the mud. What 
is it, my gallant Tom? Did you mistake the handle of the 
door for your saddle? or have you been fighting your horse 
in the stable?^ ^ 

Landlord, a glass of brandy.^' He waited till he had 
tossed off this restorative, and then sat down and took off 
his hat. Gentlemen,'^ he said solemnly, looking round 


58 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


him, and showing a face very beautifully colored already, 
where the whip had fallen upon him, “ never offer to fight 
a Frenchman. 

‘‘ Why,"^ said the Colonel, ‘‘ what have we been doing 
for ten years or more?^^ 

“ With cannons and guns it matters nothing; or with 
swords and bayonets — I grant you that. But, gentlemen, 
never offer to fight a Frenchman with cudgel or fist, un- 
less you know his tricks and are acquainted with his clevih 
ries. ^ 

“ As for fighting a Frenchman with your fists, that is 
impossible, because he can not use them. And as for tricks 
and devilries, all war consists of them.'’^ 

‘‘ ^Tis the disappointment,^^ said llom, “ the disappoint- 
ment that sticks. 

“ It will be a devil of a black eye,’’ said the Colonel. 

“You have a quarrel with a Frenchman,” Tom went 
on. “ You offer to fight him. What! can you bestow 
upon a Frenchman a greater honor than to let him tast« 
the quality of a British fist? Instead of accepting your 
offer with gratitude, what does he do? Gentlemen, what 
does he do?” He looked around for sympathy. 

“ What did he do, Tom?” 

“ First, he pretended to accept. Then we began. I 
own that he took punishment like a man. Took it gamely, 
gentlemen. Wouldn’t give in. We fought, man to man, 
for half an hour, or thereabouts, and I should hardly like 
to say how often he kissed the grass. Still, he wouldn’t 
give in, and, as for me, so great was the pleasure I had in 
thrashing the Frenchman that I didn’t care how long he 
went on. ” 

“.Well?” 

“ Well, gentlemen, the last time I knocked him down I 
thought he wasn’t coming up to time. But he did. He 
sprung to his feet, jumped into the air like a wild cat, and 
kicked me — kicked me on the face with his boot, so that I 
fell like a log. When I recovered he was gone.” 

“ That is very odd,” said one. “ Who was the French- 
man, Tom?” 

“ Kaymond Arnold, as he calls himself.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said my father, “ here is something we 
understand not. This young gentleman, almost an En- 
glishman, is thoroughly versed in all manly sports. I can 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


59 


not understand it. Kicked thee, Tom? Kicked thee on 
the side of thy head: Besides, what quarrel hadst thou 
with Raymond?'’^ 

“ Why, Alderman, we need not discuss the question here, 
if you do not know/'’ 

“ I do know; and I will have you to learn, sirrah — my 
father at such moments as this spoke as becomes one who 
hath sat upon the Judge ^s bench — “I will have you to 
learn, sirrah — here he shook his forefinger — “ that I will 
have no meddling in my household.^’ 

“ Very well,^^ said Tom; ‘‘ then I will fasten another 
quarrel upon him. Oh, there are plenty of excuses. Kicked 
me in the head, he did.'’’ 

“ As for the kicking business,” my father resumed, “ I 
should like to know what Raymond has to say. For, let me 
tell you, sir, you cut a very sorry figure. Your eyes are 
blacked; there is a mark across your face which looks like 
the lash of a whip; and you have been rolled in the mud. 
This looks as if there had been hard knocks, certainly, but 
not as if Raymond had got the worst of it. Landlord, go 
first to Madame Arnold’s cottage, and ask if Mr. Raymond 
is there. If he is, tell him, with the compliments of this 
company, to step here for a few minutes. If he is not, try 
him at my house, where he mostly spends his evenings.” 

“ Bring him, bring him I” said Tom. Now you shall 
see what he will say. Kicked me, he did, both sides of the 
head. Bring him, bring him I” 

In two or three minutes Raymond came back with the 
messenger. Whatever was the severity of the late contest, 
he shewed no signs of punishment in the face, nor were his 
hands swollen, as happens after a fight, nor were his 
clothes in any way rumpled or his hair disordered. 

The contrast between the two combatants was indeed 
most striking. 

‘‘Raymond,” said my father, “ Tom Wilgress, whose 
face you seem to have battered, is complaining that you do 
not fight fair. ” 

“ lie kicks,” said Tom. 

“ I do not fight fair? When have I shown that I do not 
fight fair?” 

“ Why,” said my father, “ what have you been doing to 
him but now?” 


60 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


‘‘Doing to him r— nothing. I have but just left your 
house, Alderman, where your messenger found me."'* 

“ But you have been lighting with Tom.'’^ 

“ DonH deny it, man,*" said Tom; “ don"t wriggle out 
of it that way. "" 

“ I have not been fighting with Tom or with any one."" 

“ This,"" said Tom, “ is enough to make a man sick."" 

“ It is strange, gentlemen,"" said my father. “ Do you 
assure us, Raymond, that you have not fought Tom at all 
this evening?"" 

“ Certainly not."" 

“ But look at the condition he is in. Can you deny that 
there has been lighting?"" 

“ It looks as if sometliing had happened to him,"" said 
Raymond. “ As for fighting, I know nothing of it. As 
for any quarrel, it has been whispered to me that Tom has 
uttered threats which I disregard. But if he wishes to fight 
I am at his service, with any weapon he chooses — even with 
lists if he likes."" 

“ He kicks,"" said Tom. “ I scorn to light with a man 
who kicks. A foul blow!"" 

One of the officers asked permission to look at Ray- 
mond"s list. 

“Gentlemen,"" he said, “Mr. Arnold"s statement is 
proved by tlie condition of his hand. He has not fought; 
therefore, Tom, it seems as if the drink had got into thy 
head. Go home to bed, and to-morrow forget this fool- 
ishness. ’" 

“ Ay — ay, foolishness, was it? Well, after this, one may 
believe anything. Look here, man "" — he seized a candle- 
stick and stood up. “ Do you deny your own handiwork? 
Look at this black eye — and this — your ovvn foul blow.’" 

“You are drunk, Tom,"" said Raymond. 

“ I suppose, then, that I have not got a black eye."" 

“You have two, Tom."" 

Tom looked about for some backing, but found none, 
and retired, growling and threatening. 

“ He must have been more drunk than he appeared,"" 
said one of the company. “ To-morrow he will have for- 
gotten everything."" 

But he did not, nor was he ever made to believe that he 
Avas not fighting Raymond, though the truth was many 
times told him. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


61 


Pierre related the history of Tom himself as the thing 
really occurred. But as Tom continued to tell the tale, 
the Frenchman's leap into the air grew higher and higher, 
and the strength of that kick more stupendous, and the 
victorious character of his own fighting the more astonish- 
ing. 


OHAPTEK VI. 

A TERRIBLE DISCWERY. 

I HAVE always been truly grateful that the terrible dis- 
covery we made concerning Pierre, was in mercy deferred 
until the evening before his departure. It is not in human 
nature, as you will shortly discover, to wish that it never 
had been made at all, because, though the discovery over- 
whelmed an innocent young man with shame and grief, 
what would afterward ‘have become of Payniond had the 
fact not been found out? 

I love the memory of this brave young man; I commis- 
erate his end ; there is no one, I am sure, with a heart so 
stony as not to grieve that so brave a man should come to 
such an end. But I am forbidden by every consideration 
of religion, to look upon the events which followed as mere 
matters of chance, seeing to what important issues the dis- 
covery led. 

Consider all the circumstances, and when you read what 
follows, confess that it was a truly dreadful discovery for 
all of us. First of all, this young soldier owed his life to 
the nursing of Mme. Claire; next, he attached himself to 
us, showing the liveliest gratitude and the most sincere 
affection, although we — that is, those of the Cottage— be- 
longed to the class he had been brought uji to hate and 
suspect, professing a creed which he had been taught to 
despise. In Madame he found a countrywoman with whom 
he could talk the language of his childhood, and hear over 
again the old stories of the Provence peasants. In her 
house, small though it was, he could escape from the rude 
companionship of the Castle, where among the prisoners 
there was nothing but gambling, betting, quarreling, and 
drinking all day long. In her society — may I not say in 
mine also? — he enjoyed for the first time in his life, the so- 
ciety of gentlewomen. With Madame, he learned that a 


62 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


woman may be a gentlewoman, and yet not desire to tram- 
ple on the poor, just as Madame learned that a man may 
be a Republican and yet not be a tiger. 

Perhaps, had he stayed longer with us, he would have 
discovered that the Christian religion he had been taught 
to deride, had something to be said for it. Moreover, in 
Raymond he found one of his own age whom he loved, al- 
though they differed in almost every principle of govern- 
ment and of conduct. It was good for us to have this 
young man with us daily; even the poor distracted woman 
grew to look for him, and talked with her [husband in ora- 
cles — so we learned afterward to consider them — about him. 
If it was good for us, it was surely good for him. Consider 
next, that like most men, he regarded his father with re- 
spect; not, perhaps, the respect with which Raymond re- 
membered his brave and loyal father, but with that respect 
which belongs to n man of honorable record, though one 
of the humbler class. 

‘‘Our orders have come,^^ he came to tell us. “To- 
morrow we embark; the day after to-morrow we shall be in 
France again. After three years — well — there is not much 
changed, I suppose. The streets will be the same and the 
barracks the same. I 'shall find some of my old comrades 
left, I dare say. Ha2:)py fellows! They have gone up the 
ladder while I sit still. 

“ Your turn will come next, Pierre. 

“ This house, at least, I can never forget, nor the ladies 
who have shown so much kindness to a prisoner.^ ^ 

“ To our compatriot, Pierre, said Madame. 

“ Send us letters sometimes, I said. “ Let' us follow 
your promotion, Pierre; let us know when you distinguish 
yourself. ” 

He laughed; but his eyes flashed. One could under- 
stand that he thought continually of getting an opportu- 
nity of distinction. 

“ Yes,^^ he said. “ If I get a chance; if I am so happy 
as to do anything worthy to be recorded, I will write to 
yoii.^^ 

“ In two days you will be in France. The country 
which we are always fighting is so near, and yet it seems so 
far off. Why must we fight with France so continually?’^ 

“ How can you ask. Miss Molly? AYe respect and love 
each other so much that we do our best to maintain in each 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


63 


country the race of soldiers, without whom either would 
quickly become a race of slaves, so as to bring out all the 
virtues — courage, patriotism, endurance, invention and 
contrivances, watchfulness, obedience — everything. War 
turns a country lad into a hero; it teaches honor, good 
manners, and self-denial; it turns men of the same country 
into brothers, and makes them respect men of another 
country. Without war, what would become of the arts? 
Without war we should all be content to sit down, make 
love, eat and drink. 

Thank you, Pierre, I said, laughing. 

Then, v/ithout thinking anything, I put the questions 
which led to the fatal discovery. 

What shall you do when you land, Pierre:’^ 

First, he said, “ I must make my way to rejoin my 
regiment, wherever it may be, and report myself. As soon 
as I have done that I shall ask for leave, and then I shall 
go to see my father. 

I suppose it was not a veiT wonderful thing that we had 
never yet learned from him where his father lived and what 
was his calling. In the same way Pierre had not learned 
from any of us all the history of the family. He knew 
that Eaymond^’s father was one of those who were shot at 
Toulon, after the taking of the town, and he knew that 
these two ladies, with Eaymond, had been rescued from the 
flames of the burning city. That, I suppose, was all he 
knew. 

“ Where does he live, your father?’^ ^ 

“ My father lives now on his estate. He bought it when 
it was confiscated as the property of a ci-devant. The 
house, I believe, was nearly destroyed by the Revolutionists. 
I have never seen it, because I was at school until, at fif- 
teen, I was drafted into the army. I have often wondered 
how he got the money to buy the estate, because we were 
always so poor that sometimes there was not money enough 
for food. 

What was his calling?” 

‘‘ I hardly know. He is an ingenious man, who knows 
everything. He is a poet, and used to write songs and sing 
them himself in the cafe for money. Once he wrote an 
opera, music and all, which was played at the theater. 
Sometimes he taught music, an/1 sometimes dancing; some- 
times he acted. Whatever he did, we were always just as 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


U 

poor — nothing made difference. Ife was a son of the 

people, and he taught me from the first to hate the aristo- 
crats and the Church. 

‘‘ Yes/^ said Madame. “ It is now two generations since 
that education was begun. Fatal are its fruits. 

“ x^l though he was so good an actor and singer, and 
could make people laugh, my father was not a happy man. 
As long as I can remember he was gloomy. Always he 
seemed to be brooding over things which have been set 
right now — the privileges of the nobility and the oppres- 
sion of the people. AVhen the Revolution came he was the 
first to rejoice. Ah! those were wonderful times.” 

“ They were truly wonderful,” said Madame. 

“ It was in 1794, the year before I went into the ranks, 
that he bought the estate. By what means he procured 
the money I know not. To be sure, they were cheap; the 
estates of the ci-deimits/^ 

“ Where is your father’s estate?” asked Madame. 

‘‘ There was a great town-house as well,” Pierre went 
on. ^^Mafoi! It was not cheerful in that town-house, 
for the mob had destroyed all the furniture, and we had no 
money to buy more. The rooms were large, and at night 
were full of noises — rats, I suppose; ghosts, perhaps. My 
father used to wander about the dark rooms, and, naturally, 
this made him grow more gloomy. All his old friends had 
gone, I know not where. He seemed left quite alone. 
Then I was drawn for the army, and I have not seen my 
father since.” 

‘‘ Where is the estate, Pierre?” asked Mme. Claire again. 

*•' It belonged to a family of tyrants. They had 02 )pressed 
the country for a thousand years.” 

“ I should like to know the name of these tyrants,” said 
Madame. 

Pierre laughed. 

My father always said so. Pardon me, nui mere, I 
have learned that he used to talk with extravagance; no 
doubt they were not tyrants at all. But they were Nobles 
— oh! of the noblest. The estate lies on the banks of the 
river Durance. There was a greafiCluiteau there formerly, 
but it is now destroyed.” 

“ On the Durance?” 

Madame sat upright full of interest. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 65 

“ Yes; not many leagues from Aix, in Provence. There 
is a village beside the Chdteau called Eyragues.^’ 

This reply was like a shower of rain from a clear sky. 

‘‘Eyragues! Eyragues!^^ cried Madame, dropping her 
work. “ There is only one Chfiteau d^’Eyragues."’^ 

“ They are talking, my dear,^^ said the poor mad lady to 
the spirit of her husband, “ of the Chateau — our Chateau 
d^Eyragues. We shall go there again soon, shall we not? 
We spent many happy years at Eyragues. Well, my friend, 
if you wish it, Raymond shall go. 

Young man!’ ^ Mme. Claire’s hands were trembling, 
her face flushed, and her voice agitated. ‘‘ I heard — but 
that can not be — it can not be! Yet I heard — Young 
man, tell me who was your father? Why did he buy the 
iflace?” 

‘ ‘ My father is what I have said — a man of the people, 
who hates aristos. Kings, and priests. I know not why he 
bought it. The Chdteau was destroyed by the people of 
Aix soon after the taking of Toulon, and the land was sold 
to the highest bidder.” 

“ Gavotte,” said Madame. “ I know not any Gavotte. 
Who could he be? There was no Gavotte in the village. ” 

‘‘It is droll,” said Pierre, laughing. “ His name was 
not Gavotte at all. It was Leroy — Louis Leroy. They 
made him change it in the times when they were furiously 
Republican. Louis Leroy — that could not be endured; so 
they called him Scipio, or Cato, or some such nonsense — it 
was their way in those days — and gave him the surname of 
Gavotte, which he still keeps. ” 

“ Oh!” Mme. Claire sunk back in her chair. “ This is 
none other than the doing of Heaven itself,” she murmured, 
gazing upon the young man, who looked astonished, as 
well he might. 

“ Much more blood, my dear friend?” It was the voice 
of the Countess, talking with her dead husband. “ You 
say that there must be much more blood? It is terrible. 
But not again the blood of the innocent.” 

“ This is the hand of God,” said Mme. Claire again. 

“ Why, ma mere — ” Pierre began. 

“ Truly the hand of God. ” 

How can I describe the transformation of this meek, re- 
signed, and patient nun into an inspired prophetess? Mme. 
Claire sat upright, her eyes gazing before her as if she saw 

3 


66 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


what we could not see. Suddenly she sprung to her feet, 
and with clasped hands she spoke words which, she de- 
clared afterward, were put into her mouth. ‘‘ Unhappy 
boy!’"' she began. ‘‘ Oh, you know not — ^you have never 
known — what your • father did. But the people of Aix 
knew; and even the Eevolutionists — his friends — fell from 
him. There is not a man in the town fallen so low as to 
sit in his company, or to speak with him. Learn the 
shameful story, though the knowledge fill your heart with 
sorrow and even your head with shame. His name is Louis 
Leroy — named Louis by his father, but Leroy was the name 
of his mother. His father was the seigneur of that Chdteau 
which is now his own; and you — you who have been taught 
to hate your forefathers — you are that seigneur’s grandson. 
I remember your father, he was a boy who refused to work; 
they sent him away from the village, and he went to Aix, 
where he lived upon his wits and upon the money his half- 
brother would give him. Yes, his half-brother, who was 
none other than my murdered brother. And who murdered 
him? Unhappy man! it was your father. Oh, woe — woe 
— woe to Cain! It was your father who denounced his own 
brother at Toulon. But for him he might have escaped. 
Louis Leroy, whom my brother had befriended, spoke the 
word that sent him to his death, and now sits, his brother’s 
blood upon his hands, in the place which he has bought for 
himself. Your father — alas, your father!” 

“Madame,” I cried, “for mercy’s sake, spare him!” 
for the young man’s face was terrible to behold. 

She swayed backward and forward, and I thought that 
she would have fallen. 

“ The vengeance of Heaven never fails,” she said. “ For 
many years have I looked for news of this man. Once — 
twice — I knew not how, he has been struck. A third and 
a more terrible blow will fall upon him — through his son — 
but I know not how. Yet he has done nothing — this poor 
boy — he is innocent; he knows nothing; and yet — and yet 
— oh, Molly, I am constrained to speak.” 

“ Oh, Madame!” 

“ Through his son — through his son — Oh, unhappy 
man! unhappy son!” 

“ Madame, for mercy’s sake, say something to console 
him. ” 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


67 


She made no reply, her eyes still gazing upon something 
which we saw not. 

Then she suddenly became again herself — soft-eyed, gen- 
tle — and tears ran down her cheeks. 

“Pierre!’^ she said, holding out her hands. But he 
shrunk back. My son whom I love; for whom I have 
prayed. Oh, Pierre, what is it that you have told us?’"* It 
seemed as if she knew not what she had said. ‘‘Oh, I 
understand now the resemblance. You are Kaymond’s 
cousin.” 

“ My father,” Pierre said presently. “ My father — a 
murderer?^ ^ 

“ Alas, it is true!” 

“ My father!” 

“ It is true, Pierre. Ask me no more. What! Did no 
one ever tell you of the Arnaults? Yet you have lived in 
our house at Aix — the old house, with the pilasters outside, 
and the carved wood-work within, and everywhere the arms 
of the Arnaults carved and painted.” 

“ Yes; 1 know of these; but I knew not that you — that 
Kaymond — I never thought that you were so great a fam- 
ily. I • had no suspicion of my father^’s birth. I knew 
nothing. I was told that the Arnaults were tyrants who 
had committed detestable crimes. That was the way they 
talked in those days. All the Nobles had committed de- 
testable crimes.” 

“ Alas! our crimes — what were they? Oh, Pierre, I would 
to Heaven that you had gone away before this dreadful thing 
had been discovered. I would to Heaven that you had 
never found it out at all, and so lived out your life in hap- 
py ignorance of this shameful story. There are things 
which Heaven will not suffer to be concealed. It is through 
me that you have found out the truth ; forgive me, Pierre. 
Let us forgive each other and pray; oh, you can not pray, 
child of the Kevolution! Pierre-—” he was so overwhelmed 
with shame, his cheek flushed, his lip quivering, his head 
bent, that she was filled with pity — “ Let us console each 
other. After the town was taken, I think my brother might 
have been killed, whether any witnesses were forced to 
speak against him or not. Yes, the evidence mattered 
little; he was the Comte d^Eyragues; he was one of those 
who brought the British troops into the city; yes, he must 
have been condemned. ” 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


But my father denounced him. And here — he 
pointed to the Countess. 

‘‘ She is the victim of that dreadful night which no one 
can ever forget who passed through it, and of the suspense 
when we waited anxiously for news of her husband, but 
heard none till we landed at Portsmouth and learned the 
truth. 

At this moment Raymond opened the door and burst ' 
into the room. 

‘‘ Courage, Pierre!” he cried, joyously, “ to-morrow you 
shall leave your prison. I wish thee joy, brother, promo- 
tion, and good fortune. When we go back to our own, if 
ever we do, I promise thee a hearty welcome, if it be only 
among the ruins of our old house. 

Pierre made no reply. 

“You will write to me, will you not? That is agreed. 
Tell me how everything is changed, and if it is true that 
there are no longer any men left to till the fields, but the 
women must do all the work. If you go to Aix, go and 
look for our house — everybody knows the Hotel Arnault — 
tell me if it still stands. 

JStill Pierre made no reply. • • 

“ Molly, have you nothing to give him, that he may re- 
member you by? You must find a keepsake for him. 
Pierre, it is the English custom for friends when they part 
to drink together. We will conform to the English cus- 
tom.” 

Thus far he talked without observing how Pierre stood, 
with hanging head, his eyes dropped, his cheek burning, the 
very picture and efiigy of sliame. Raymond laid a hand 
upon his shoulder. 

‘ ‘ Come, comrade, let us two crack a bottle as the En- 
ghsh use — ” 

But Pierre shrunk away from him. 

“ Do not touch me,” he cried, “ do not dare to touch 
me. I am a man accursed.” 

He seized his hat and rushed away. 

“ Why,” asked Raymond, in astonishment, “ what ails 
Pierre?” 

“ We spoke, said Mme, Claire quietly, “ of the Revo- 
lution in which liis father took a part, and we have shamed 
him. ” 

“ They spoke,” echoed the mad woman, “ of the Revo- 


THE HOLT EOSE. 


69 

lution. He is a child of the Revolution, which devours 
everything, even her own children/^ 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE DEPAETURE OF THE PRISONERS. 

Twice has it been my lot to witness the general departure 
of prisoners afi?er the signing of peace between Great Brit- 
ain and France, namely in the year 1802 and the year 1814. 
As for their arrival, it seems now as if they were being 
brought in every day for nearly two-and-twenty years, so 
long, with the brief interval of one year, did this contest 
rage. Besides the general discharge there was a constant 
exchange of prisoners— chiefly, I believe, those who were 
sick and disabled from serving again — by cartel. A gen- 
eral discharge is quite another thing; for, immediately be- 
fore such an event, the prison rules are relaxed, the prison 
becomes transformed into a palace of joy. There is noth- 
ings all day long, except singing, dancing, and drinking; 
one would believe, to witness these extravagant rejoicings 
of the soldiers and sailors, that they were released forever 
from all hardships of toil and service, and that the Reign 
of Plenty, Leisure, and Peace was immediately to begin. 

“But Liberty, said Raymond, “is the dearest of all 
man^s rights; and, besides, at home they have their wives 
and sweethearts. Love, Molly, is not confined to this 
island of Great Britain. " 

Those who made the greatest show of rejoicing were cer- 
tainly the French; the Spaniards, as they took their im- 
prisonment sullenly, received the news of their release with- 
out outward emotion. No one, it is certain, can seriously 
wish to return to a country where they have the Inquisi- 
tion. The Hutch, of whom many, as I have said, had vol- 
unteered for British service, heard the news of the peace 
with national phlegm; the poor negroes, most of whom 
were dead and the rest fallen into a kind of stupid apathy, 
were unaffected; the Vendean privateers with terror, think- 
ing that General Hoche was still in their midst, ready to 
shoot them down. 

The embarkation of so many prisoners was not effected 
in a single day» Some were sent across to Hunkirk ; some 
— those from Portsmouth and Porchester- -to Dieppe; those- 


70 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


from Plymouth — some of whom were taken across in coast- 
ers — to Havre. 

In the morning of the embarkation the narrow beach 
was crowded with those who came, like ourselves, to bid 
farewell, for we were not the only people who had friends 
among the prisoners. They came from Fareham, from the 
country round South wick, from Cosham, from Titchbrook, 
and from Portsmouth and Gosport. There were sea-cap- 
tains among them, come to see once more th^ prisoners they 
had made; with them were army officers, country squires, 
and young fellows, the country Jessamys, like my cousin 
Tom, who had made friends among the French officers at 
horse-races, over the punch-bowl, and at the cock-pit. They 
came riding, brave in Hessian boots and padded shoulders. 
Among them were many ladies, and I think it is true, as 
was then alleged, that many a sore heart was left behind 
when the young French officers were released. But only to 
see the heartiness of the fare\^ells, the happiness of those 
who went away, and the congratulations of those who 
sent them away, and how they shook hands, and cajne 
back, and then again shook hands, and ssvore to see 
each other again — Twould have moved the stoniest heart! 
Who would have thought that yonder handsome officer, 
gallant m cocked hat, blue coat, and white pantaloons, 
amid the group of English ladies, to whom he was bidding 
farewell, was their hereditary enemy? Or who would be- 
lieve that yonder gray-headed veteran, clasping the hand 
of a jovial Hampshire squire, had fought all his life against 
Great Britain? Or, again, could that little company, who 
had so often met at the cock- pit, or at the bull-baiting, and 
who now were drinking together before they separated (my 
cousin Tom was one), become again deadly enemies? - Alas’ 
why should men fight when, if they would but be just to 
others and to themselves, there would be no need of any 
wars at all.^ Lastly, there were the rank and file, the pri- 
vates and sailors, drinking about in friendship with our 
honest militiamen, as if the Keign -of Peace was already 
come, instead of a short respite only. ^ 

I suppose there was never seen so various a collection of 
uniforms on tins beach. Among them were the sailors of 
prance, Holland and Spain, alike with differences. Dress 
them exactly alike, if you will, but surely no one would 
ever take a Frenchman for a Hollander, or a Spaniard for 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


71 


a Frenchman. I know not what are the various uniforms 
of the Republican army, but here were grenadier hats of 
bearskin, round beavers, hats with Uie red. cockade, cocked 
hats with gold lace, caps with a peak and a high feather, 
the old three-corner hats, the common round hat with a red 
plume, the brass helmet, the red Republican cap, the blue 
thread cap, and a dozen others. And as for the coats and 
facings, they were of all colors, but mostly they seemed 
blue with drab facings. The French naval officers, in their 
blue jackets, red waistcoats, and blue pantaloon, looked 
more like soldiers than sailors. Some of the officers had 
been prisoners for five or six years, so that their uniform 
coats were worn threadbare, or even ragged, their epau- 
lets and gold lace' tarnished, and their crimson seams 
faded. Yet- they made a gallant show, and but for the 
absence of their swords, looked as if they were dressed for 
a review. The common sort were barefoot — which was 
common in the Republican armies — and is no hardship to 
sailors. Some of them having quite worn out their own 
clothes, wore the yellow suit provided by the British Gov- 
ernment for the foreign prisoners. 

Among the prisoners were their two priests. They, at 
least, were well pleased that the Reign of Atheism was 
over, and religion was once more established according to 
the will of the Pope. 

Now, as we passed through the throng, the men all 
parted right and left, Madame sa5nng a last word now to 
one and now to another of her friends, while even those 
who scoffed the loudest at religion, paid the lady the respect 
due to her virtues. She was an aristo, and they were 
citizens, equal, and of common brotherhood — at least they 
said so; she a Christian and they atheists; she a Royalist, 
and they Republicans; yet not one among them but re- 
garded her with gratitude. 

She spoke to a young fellow in the dress of a common 
sailor, who looked as if he belonged to a better class, saying 
a few words of good wishes. 

Yes,^’ he replied bitterly, ‘‘ I go home. When last I 
saw the house it was in fiames, when last I saw my father 
he was being dragged away to be shot; my mother and 
sisters were guillotined in the Terror, and I escaped by go- 
ing on board a privateer. What shall I find in the new 
France of which they speak so much? They have left off 


72 ' 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


murdering us; I suppose they will even suffer me to carry 
a musket in the ranks. 

Apart from the ‘groups of those who drank, and those 
who exchanged farewells, we found Pierre standing alone 
with gloomy looks. 

“My son,"" said Madame, “we have come to bid vou 
farewell. "" 

He raised his eyes heavily, but dropped them again. 
The sight of Madame was like the stroke of a whip. 

“ It is not so bad for you to look upon me as for me to 
hear your voice,"" he said. 

“ Pierre, my son ""—she held out her hand, but he re- 
fused to take it, not rudely, but as one who is unworthy 

Pierre, be patient. As for what has happened, I was 
constrained to tell you. Oh, I could not choose but tell 
you. Yet it was no sin or fault of yours, poor boy. If 
any disaster befall you by act of God, accept it with resig- 
nation. It is for the sin of another. Count it as an atone- 
ment— for him. So if sufferings come to you— what do I 
say.'' Alas! I must be a prophetess, my son, because I 
know yes, I know— that disaster will fall upon you, but I 
know not of what kind. Yet be assured that there is noth- 
ing^ordered by Providence which can hurt your soul."" 

“My soul,"" cried Pierre, impetuously. “My souP 
What IS It my soul?"" He laughed in his Republican in- 
fidelity. What is it, and where is it? It is my life that 
IS mined, do you understand? You have taken away my 
honor--iny pride— and my ambition. You haye taken all 
that 1 had, and you bid me think of my soul."" 

“ When you go to the South— to Aix— you will see your 
father, Pierre. Fail not, I charge you, fail not to tell him 
that we have forgiven— yes, three of us have forgiven— the 
dead man, and the mad woman, and the religieuse— and 
the fourth— the son— does not know. Say that we all for- 
sake of his son, we pray for him."’ 

ihen Piepe, in the presence of the whole multitude — no 
Rritish soldier would have done such a thing— fell upon his 
knees and kissed Madame"s hand. When he rose his eyes 
were full of tears. 

Pierre,""! said, “remember, you haye promised to 
send us a letter. Write to me, Pierre, if not to Raymond, 
will you not.'' " 

He shook his head sadly. “ I£,” he said, “ there should 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


73 


happen anything worth telling you, anything by which you 
could think of me with pity as well as forgiveness, I would 
write. ^ 

end ^ presently, he kept this promise in the 

Truly it was sorrowful to see the young man, so full of 
shame, who, but the day before, had been so full of joy and 
pride. Happy, indeed, is he whose father has lived an 
honorable life! It is better to be the son of a good man 
than the son of a rich man. 

‘‘I have no right, ''he said, “to ask of you the least 
thing." 

“ Ask what you please, Pierre." 

“ Then, if it be possible, let not Paymond know. We 
have been friends, we have talked and laughed together, I 
have accepted from him a thousand gifts; let him not. 
know, if it can be avoided, that the man who — who now 
lives at OhAteau d'Eyragues is my father. " 

“ We will not tell him. Raymond shall learn nothing 
from us that will trouble his friendship for you, Pierre." 

We kept our promise, but, had we broken it, how much 
misery we should have spared Raymond! how different 
w^ould have been the lot of Pierre! 

“We will never tell him," I repeated. “Oh, Pierre! 
We are so sorry~so sorry. Forget yesterday evening, and 
remember only the happy days you have spent with Ray- 
mond and with me." 

But then Ijis turn came. The great ships' launches were 
drawn up, each rowed by a dozen sailors, and commanded 
by a midshipman, who steered. The last time these 
launches came up the harbor, in each boat stood a dozen 
marines, stationed in the bow and stern, armed with loaded 
muskets and fixed bayonets, while every sailor had his cut- 
lass, and the boat was crammed with prisoners gloomy and 
downcast. Now the only arms on board consisted of the 
midshipman's dirk, there were no marines, the sailors had 
no cutlasses, and they hailed the prisoners with cheers. 

Pierre pressed my hand, and once more kissed Madame's 
fingers. Then he took his place. The rest of the boat- 
load showed every outward sign of rejoicing, Pierre alone 
sat in his place with hanging head. 

“ They are gone," said my cousin Tom. He had been 
drinking and his face was red. “ They are gone. Well, 


74 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


there were good men and true among them. Would that 
the rest of their nation would iollow! especially all — Isay 
— who kick when they fight. Well — every man gets his 
turn.^^ 

The launches kept coming and going day after day until 
the last prisoner was taken off the beach. Then the gar- 
rison was left in the Castle by itself. 

When the militia regiments were ' presently disbanded 
Rnd sent home the Castle was quite empty. Then they 
sent boats from the Dockyard with men, who carried away 
the hammocks and the furniture, such as it was: took down 
the wooden buildings, and carried away the timber; pulled 
down the canteen, the blacksmiths’ and carpenters’ shops, 
burned the rubbish left behind by the prisoners, and left 
the Castle empty and deserted. We might climb the stairs 
of the keep to the top, passing all the silent chambers, 
where so many of them had slept; the chapel was stripped 
of its altar; the stoves were taken out of the kitchens; and 
the grass began to grow again in the court, which had been 
their place of resort and exercise. There were no traces 
left of the French occupants, except the names that they 
bad carved on the stones, the half-finished carvings in wood 
and bone, which they left behind, and the rude tools which 
they, had used. Once, I found lying rusted in a dark 
chamber one of the daggers which they made for them- 
selves with a file, sharpened and pointed, stuck in a piece 
of wood. Strange it was at first to wander in those empty 
courts, and to think of the monotonous time which the 
cruel war imposed upon those poor fellows. 

They are gone,’^ said Raymond. “ Well, let us hope 
that every man will find his mistress waiting faithfully for 
him. As for Pierre, who certainly had a bee in his bon- 
net, his only mistress is Mme. la Guerre. He loved no 
other. She is horribly old; covered with scars, hacked 
about with sword and spear, and riddled with shot. Yet 
he loves her. She is dressed in regimental flags, she gives 
her lovers crowns of laurel which cost her nothing, titles 
which she invents, and a promise of immortality which 
she means to break. Poor Pierre! We shall never see him 
again, but we may hear of him.” 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


75 


CHAPTER VIIL 

HE CAH HOT CHOOSE BUT GO. 

Thus began the Peace, which ifc was hoped would be 
lasting, but came to an end after a short twelve months. 
Porchester became once more the village out of the way, 
standing in no high-road, without travelers or stage- 
coaches. In its quiet streets there were no longer heard 
the voices of the soldiers at the tavern, or those of the 
prisoners on j^arole, or the nightly watch. There is never 
a hearty welcome to peace from those who prosper by war. 
I confess that when the boat came back with half its con- 
tents unsold, one was tempted to lament, with Sally, that 
war could not go on forever. As for the towns of Ports- 
mouth, Portsea, and Gosport, their condition threatened to 
become deplorable, because the Dock-yard was reduced, the 
militia sent home, and many thousands of sailors paid off. 
It has been said, by those who know Portsmouth well, that 
the petition, every Sunday morning, for peace in our time, 
meets with a response which is cold and without heart. 

Now, however, all the talk was concerning France open 
to travelers after the^years of Republican government. 
Not only did the prisoners go back, but the emigres them- 
selves, thinking that, although their estates were gone and 
their rank had no longer any value, it was better to live in 
one^s native land than on a strange soil, began to flock back 
in great numbers. Great Britain had abandoned their 
cause; why should they any more stand apart from their 
own people? They went back trembling, lest they should 
find the guillotine erected to greet their return. But times 
had changed. The people had found out that even though 
there were neither Kings nor Nobles, their lives were not a 
whit easier and their work just as tedious. But the France 
to which they returned was very different from the France 
in which they had grown up, and the old Order was clean 
gone with the old ideas. 

Not only did the emigres return, but crowds of English 
travelers flocked across the Channel to see Paris, which had 
been closed to them for ten years. They met, we are told. 


76 


THE HOLY EOSE. 


a most gracious welcome from the inn-keepers, tradesmen, 
and all those with whom they spent their money. 

Is it, then, "wonderful that Kaymond should grow rest- 
less, thus hearing continually of the country wfich, how- 
ever much we might pretend to call him an Englishman, 
was really his native land. 

‘‘ Molly, he said, ‘‘lam drawn and dragged as if by 
strong ropes toward the country. I feel that I must go 
across the Channel, even if I have to row myself over in an 
open boat and walk barefoot all the way to Paris. I must 
see Paris. I must see this brave army which hath overrun 
Europe.’^ 

“ But, Raymond, it would cost a great sum of money.'’" 

“ Yes, Molly "" — his face fell — “ more money than we 
possess; therefore, I fear I must renounce the idea. Mol- 
ly,"" there were times when Raymond flashed into fire, and 
showed that a gentle exterior might cover a sleeping vol- 
cano, “Molly, this village suits thy tender and gentle 
heart, but it is a poor life, only to endure the days that 
follow. The lot of Pierre, though the end may be a corpse 
with a bullet through the heart, seems sometimes better 
than this."" 

This was no passing fancy or whim, but the desire grew 
upon him daily to see his native country, insomuch that he 
began to take little interest in anything else, and would be 
always reading or talking about France. It has been wise- 
ly observed of all emigres that in, secret they rejoiced at the 
wonderful triumphs of the French arms under Bonaparte 
— successes far surpassing any other in history, even under 
the great Turenne himself. 

In a word, nothing would serve but that Raymond must 
go. He had but little money, and it was necessary that 
he should have enough for his expenses, though he was to 
travel cheaply. Therefore, the usual expedient was re- 
sorted to, and the rest of the small jewels taken from the 
Holy Rose. 

He left us. 

“ There is no danger,"" I said to Mme. Claire. “ The 
country is peaceful, and he will be as safe as with us at 
home."" 

“ I know not, child,"" she replied. “ When I think of 
France I see nothing but maddened mobs rushing about 
the streets, bearing on their pikes the heads of innocent 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


77 


women and loyal men. Yes— yes— I know. All that is 
over. Yet I remember it. ” 

“ The First Consul has turned all these mobs into 
soldiers. ” 

“ And there is the man Gavotte. Suppose Eaymond 
should fall into his hands. 

“ Why, France is large. It is not likely that they will 
meet. And the man could not harm Raymond if he 
wished.^’ 

“ My dear, she said, pointing to the Holy Rose, stripped 
and bare, “ all the jewels are now gone. There is nothing 
left but the trunk and the dead branches. 

He traveled with a passport which described him as 
. Raymond Arnold, British subject, and artist by profession. 
Had we carefully devised beforehand the method which 
would be most likely to lead to his destruction, we could 
not have hit upon a better plan. For, while France was 
most suspicious of British subjects, the passport described 
him as one, it concealed his nationality, altered his name, 
and gave him the profession which would most readily lend 
color to suspicion, and support to the most groundless 
charges. 


CHAPTER IX. 

RAYMOND'S JOURNEY. 

So Raymond left us, and for my own part I had no fears, 
none at all. Why should there be dangers in France more 
than in England? In both countries there are thieves, 
murderers, and footpads. In both there are honest men. 
Those who consort with honest men do not generally en- 
counter rogues. Raymond was not one of those who put 
themselves willingly in company where rogues are mostly 
found. We had letters from him. First a letter from 
Paris. He had seen the First Consul at a review of troops. 
“ He was, after all, only a little man," Raymond wrote, 
but he wore in his face the air of one accustomed to com- 
mand." At this time he was little more than thirty years 
of age, yet the foremost man in all Europe. ‘‘Molly," 
Raymond said, “ I confess that my heart glowed with ad- 
miration at the sight of this great commander and that of 


78 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


the brave troops whom he hath led to so many victories. 
They are not tall men, as you already know from the siVht 
of the prisoners, but they are full of spirit, and their march- 
ing is quicker than that of our own — the British troops. I 
forget not that here I am an Englishman traveling as a 
subject of His Majesty King George. I am staying at a 
hotel in the Rue St. Honore, one of the principal streets in 
the town. The place is full of English visitors, and we all 
go about with our mouths wide open, looking at the won- 
ders of Paris. I shall have plenty to tell you, dear, in the 
winter evenings. I have seen the place where the Bastile 
stood, and the great Cathedrals of Notre Dame and St. 
Denis, and the Palaces of the Louvre and Versailles; above 
all I have seen the prison of the Queen. The people are 
very lively and fond of spectacles and theaters, fairs and 
noise. I find that my French is antiquated, and there are 
many words and idioms used which are strange to me. 
But the Parisians talk a language of their own, which 
changes from day to day, and is always full of little terms 
and illusions, which no stranger or provincial can under- 
stand. Last night 1 went to the Theatre des Varietes to 
hear a Vaudeville vvhich contained a hundred good things, 
all of which I lost from not understanding the talk of tiie 
day. The ingenious author of the piece was this morning 
shown to me at a cafe. This happy man, who can make a 
whole theater full of people laugh and forget their troubles, 
is himself one who is always laughing and singing. 

If I refrain from copying more of Raymond^’s letters you 
must not suppose that they were short, or that they con- 
tained nothing but his adventures and observations. They 
were long letters, delightful to read, only there were some 
passages which in reading them aloud I was compelled to 
pass on in silence, because they were meant for no ear but 
mine. The things which a lover whispers to his sweetheart 
must not be told to any one, though, indeed, I suppose all 
men say much the same things, since our language con- 
tains no more than a dozen words of endearment, so that 
they have no choice. Now, after Raymond had been in 
Paris about three weeks he thought that he must begin his 
journey south. 

He traveled by the stage coach, which in France is callea 
a diligence; it is much slower than our flying coaches, 
while the roads are much worse than ours, being not only 


TUE HOLY ROSE. 


79 


narrow but also rendered dangerous by the deep ruts made 
by the heavy wagons. Before the Revolution they were 
kept in repair by forced labor. The roads being so bad, it 
is not wonderful that people travel no more than they are 
obliged. The diligence is, however, cheap, and as its prog- 
ress is slow, one can see a good deal on the way. Thus 
Raymond saw the Palace of Fontainebleau, formerly in- 
habited by the Kings of France; he visited also the old city 
of Dijon, once the capital of Burgundy; the city of Lyons, 
which was destroyed by the Revolutionary army a little be- 
fore they took Toulon, and many other places, all of which 
are set down in the map of France, which we now keep to 
show the children how great a traveler their father has 
been. He also made many drawings on the way, some of 
the women in their white caps, some of the peasants, some 
of churches and castles, but all these drawings were lost by 
an unexpected event, which I have presently to tell you. 

At Lyons he left the stage coach, and took passage on 
one of the boats which go down the Rhone, and are called 
water coaches. They are crowded with people, and one 
sleeps on board, but the cabins are close, and there is not 
room for all to lie. Raymond found, however, that this 
mode of travel was vastly more pleasant than the coach 
with the dust and the noise. This journey terminated at a 
place called Arles, from which he wrote to me. 

I am at last,^’ he said, in my own country, among 
the people who use the language of my childhood. It is 
strauge to hear them all talking as we love to talk in our 
cottage at Porchester. One seems back in England again. 
The people think it strange that an Englishman should 
know their tongue. I told them that I knew an English 
girl who knows the language and can speak it as well as 
myself. They are friendly to me, though they have the 
reputation of being quick-tempered and ready to strike. 
We stayed an hour or two at Avignon, where is an old 
broken bridge over the river, and in the town there are 
many remains of antiquity, with stone walls, and a great 
building once the palace of the Pope. At the town of 
Arles, where I write, there are Roman buildings; a vast 
circus all of stone, where they used to have fights of gladi- 
ators, and where the people used to throng in order to wit- 
ness the torture of Christian martyrs. My dear, I am now 
within two days^ journey of my birthplace. The nearer I 


80 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


draw the more dearly do I remember it. The Ohdteau 
d^Eyragues stands upon a low cliff rising above the river 
Durance, which is wide and shallow, and subject to sudden 
floods. It is a large white house, with an ancient square 
tower at one end. The windows, which are small and 
high, are provided with green jalousies to keep out the siiii. 
There is a broad veranda in front of the house; on one 
side is a garden, and on the other side a farmyard, vitli 
turkeys, and fowls, and geese; here are also the dogs and 
the stables, and here is a great pigeon-house, witli hun- 
dreds of pigeons flying about. It is the privilege of the 
Seigneur to keep pigeons, which eat up the corn of the 
farmers. Overhead is a sky always blue; the hills are bare 
and treeless; there are groves of gray olives, and the fields, 
which for the greater part of the year are dry and bare, are 
protected from the cold mistral wind by a kind of screen 
made of reeds. There are vines in the fields, and there are 
groves of mulberry-trees planted for the sake of the silk- 
worms. It is, I confess, a country which few love save 
those who are born in it. The people are passionate, jeal- 
ous, and headstrong; they do nothing in cold blood; they 
hate and love with equal ardor. My Molly, you love one 
of them. Will you be warned in time? 

“ To-morrow I leave for the lihone, and make for Aix, 
whence it is but a short journey to the village of Eyragues. 
How well I remember the last time I went to Aix! We 
traveled in our great gilt coach, hung upon springs, from 
the Chateau to our Imuse. It must have been early in the 
year 1793. My father was already melancholy and a prey 
to gloomy forebodings. But he was the Count d^Eyragaes, 
and a grand Seigneur, and now his son is plain Mister Arnold, 
and a humble English traveler, who can not afford post- 
horses, but journeys in the panier with the common folk. 
Adieu, my well-beloved; I will write to thee again from 
Aix.’^ 

A week later there came another endearing, delightful 
letter. 

“lam at Aix,^^ he said. “ I am at last, and after a 
tedious journey of three days, at Aix. The distance, which 
is not quite fifty miles, or thereabouts, from Arles, would 
be covered on an English high-road in a single day. Here, 
‘ however, the roads are bad, the carriages heavy, and the 
horses weak and in poor condition. All the best horses, I 


THE HOLY EOSE. 


81 


am told, have been taken for the cavalry. The road is not, 
moveover, what you would call a high-road, but a cross- 
country road, passing over a level plain through villages; 
and the coach, which is little better than a great, clumsy 
basket, was filled with farmers and small proprietors, talk- 
ing of bad times and the war. There was also a comrnia- 
voyageur, that is, a traveling clerk, or rider, going, he told 
me, from Arles to Aix, and thence to Toulon. He wanted 
to talk French to me, and was continually expressing his 
astonishment to find that an Englishman should wish to 
visit this part of the country at all; and, secondly, that an 
Englishman should be able to speak the Provencal lan- 
guage. I told him I was often surprised myself, because, 
with the exception of a single young lady of my acquaint- 
ance, there was probably no one in England, apart from 
the hnigres, who could speak it like myself. 

‘ Monsieur,' said my commis-voyageiir, ‘ has the air of 
a Provencal. Oh! quite the air of a Provengal. I have 
seen Englishmen. There are English prisoners at Mar- 
seilles; and I have seen English sailors at Bordeaux. Never 
did I see an Englishman who resembled Monsieur. ' This 
gentleman is right, and he, for his part, has the air of one 
who suspects me. Let him, however, suspect what he 
pleases. I have my passport. I am not a political agent, 
and I am engaged in nothing that I wish to conceal. I 
conversed freely with the people. Alas! they are no longer 
Koyalists. The events of the last ten years have turned 
their heads. Though the wars have made them no richer, 
but have killed their young men and laid the most terrible 
burdens upon the country — it is certain that France has 
suffered far more than England — the splendid successes of 
the French arms have turned their heads. Nevertheless, 
everybody is afraid that war may break out again at any 
moment-— in Paris they speak openly of speedily sweeping 
us from the seas — and pray that the peace may be 
lasting. 

“ I asked them about many things: the condition of the 
country, the change from the old order — I understand now 
that it can never return — the army, The state of religion, 
the cultivation of the fields — everything that one wants to 
know when returning to his native land after a long ab- 
sence. 

‘ Decidedly,' said my friend, the commis-voyageurj 


82 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


‘ Monsieur is curious. Monsieur probably proposes to 
write a book of travels. 

“The road is lined for the greater part of the way with 
plane-trees, all bent over in the same direction and at the 
same height, by the mistral wind, just as on the King's 
bastion at Portsmouth the trees are all bent down by the 
wind from the sea. At this season Provence looks green 
and beautiful; the planes are coming into leaf, the Arbre 
Judas, wliich grows in the gardens, is in full flower; there 
is whitethorn in plenty; the mulberries have not begun to 
lose their leaves; while the cypresses, of which my people 
are so fond, and their gray olives, and even the long lines 
of reeds with which they shelter their flelds from the mis- 
tral, look well behind the green maize. In two months 
the white road will be a foot deep in dust, the leaves by the 
road-side will be white with dust, and the mulberry-trees 
will be stripped of their foliage for the silkworms. As for 
flowers, there are few here compared with those in the 
English fields; but there are some, especially when a canal 
for irrigation runs beside the road, crossed here and there 
by its passerelle— the little foot-bridge. There are few 
wayfarers along the road, and in the fields the workers are 
chiefly women. 

“ Our journey took three days, the sleeping accommoda- 
tion in the villages being poor, but better than that in the 
boats. Here, at Aix, everything is good and comfortable. 

“ I have been sketching in the town; I have made a 
drawing of our town house, which is an old house in a dark 
and narrow street. It stands round three sides of a court, 
in which are lilacs and fig-trees, and a fountain. I did not 
ask to whom the house now belongs, but I begged per- 
mission of the concierge to sketch it. There being no one 
at home I was allowed to sit in the court and make my 
drawing. I have also sketched the cathedral and the 
Church of St. John, where my ancestors lie buried. Hap- 
pily, their tombs were not defaced by the Revolutionists. 

“ My dearest Molly, there remains to be seen- only the 
old Chateau, and the place where my father died. Some 
day, perhaps, we may be able to erect a monument to him 
as well, though his body lies we know not where. 

‘ ‘ To-morrow I walk to Eyragues, which is not more 
than ten miles from Aix. Shall I find the Chateau as we 
left it: But my falher. who used to walk upon the terrace 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


83 


before the house, will be there no longer. I hope to write 
from Toulon. Farewell, my love, farewell!^' 

The letter reached us at the end of April. We waited 
patiently at first for the promised successor. None came 
the next week, and none the week after. Then I, for my 
part, began to grow impatient. Day by day I went out to 
meet the post-boy from Fareham. Sometimes he turned 
at the road, which leads to the Castle, and blew his horn at 
the Vicarage. But none for me. And the weeks passed 
by and nothing more was heard. 

Now, by our calculations, the time for a letter to reach 
Porchester from Aix being eighteen days, if Raymond had 
arrived at Toulon about the middle of April, supposing 
that his business kept him there no more than two or three 
days, he would proceed to Marseilles, and thence make his 
way as rapidly as he could across France, and so home, and 
should arrive by the middle of May. That is the reason, I 
said, trying to assure myself, though I spent the nights in 
tears and prayers, why he has not written another letter, 
because he is posting homeward as speedily as he can travel 
and comes as fast as any letter. He will oe with us, there- 
fore, about the middle of May. 

The middle of May passed and he did not return, nor 
was there any letter from him. 

Now on the 18th of May, in that year, a very grave step 
was taken by .His Majesty the King. He declared war 
against France. Those who were in State secrets have 
since assured the world that this step was not taken with- 
out due consideration, and a full knowledge of its impor- 
tance; and, further, that in declaring war, the King only 
anticipated the intentions of Bonaparte, whose only reason 
for deferring liis declaration was that he might find time to 
build more ships. 

Well, even though war 'was declared, Raymond was a 
man of peace who would be suffered to return. It was not 
likely that a war, which would not greatly move the hearts 
of the people, the causes for which lay in political reasons 
which they could not understand, would exasperate the 
French against a simple English traveler. 

Letters, it is certain, sometimes miscarry; from the 
South of France to Hampshire is, indeed, a terrible dis- 
tance. Our traveler would come home before his letter, 
war or no war. 


84 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


Thus passed seven weeks, and then we heard that Bona- 
jmrte, by an exercise of authority which was wholly without 
parallel in the history of nations, had ordered that all En- 
glishmen traveling in France, even peaceful merchants and 
clergymen, should be detained. Among them, no doubt, 
was Raymond. 

But other dUenus, as they were called, wrote letters 
home, which were duly forwarded and received. Why did 
not Raymond write? 

It was through me— oh, through me, and none other — 
that he went away. I encouraged him to talk about his old 
home; I fed the flame of desire to see it again. Had it not 
been for me he would have stayed at home, and now we 
should have been all happy together — safe and happy. But 
now — where was he? In a French prison, in rags, like our 
French prisoners, with no money. How could we get to 
him? How help him? How know even where he was? 

‘‘ My child, said Mme. Claire, we are in the hands of 
Heaven. Do not reproach yourself. Raymond was fllled 
with longing to see his native land again. Nay, what can 
have happened to him but detention with the other English 
travelersr^^ 

While I wept and wrung my hands, and Mme. Claire 
consoled me, and we sought to And reasons for this long 
silence, it was strange to listen to the poor mad woman, 
laughing and singing, and talking to her dead husband, 
chiefly about Raymond. 

‘‘ The boy has grown tall, my friend, she would say. 
“ The time comes when we must find a wife for him; then, 
in our old age, we shall have our grandchildren round us. 
When he comes home he shall marry; he will come now 
very soon.^^ 

It seemed as if in some imperfect way she understood 
tliat her son was gone somewhere. Perhaps it was to com- 
fort us that she kept repeating the words, “ He will come 
home soon; he will come home soon.^’ 

Alas! the time soon arrived when those words were a 
mockery! 

It was at the beginning of the tenth week that we re- 
ceived one more letter in that dear handwriting. But what 
a letter. Oh, what a letter! for it . left us without one 
gleam of hope or comfort. 

“I should meet my love in Heaven, said Madame. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


85 


Alas! Heaven at nineteeni seems so far away; and to one 
whose heart is wholly given to an earthly passion_, Heaven 
seems a joyless place. Sure I am that if when one is young 
the choice was olfered of a continuance of earthly joys, 
which we know, with youth and health and plenty, or of 
the unknown heavenly joys^ though we are plainly told 
that mind can not conceive and tongue can not tell their 
raptures> we should, for the most part, prefer the former. 

Oh this letter! Can I, now, think of it without a sinking 
of the heart, and a wonder that the letter did not kill me 
• on the spot. The postman stopped at our garden-gate; 
*twas a morning in June; the lilacs and laburnums were 
still out; all the roses were in blossom, and the sun was so 
warm that one was able already to sit in the open air. At 
sight of the man my heart leaped up. He had a letter for 
me, which he held up and laughed — for he knew my impa- 
tience and anxiety — and I rushed to the gate and took it. 
Yes, it was in my Eaymond’s handwriting. I left the post- 
man to get his money from Sally, and ran as fast as I could 
to the cottage, my letter in my hand. 

“A letter !"” I cried. “A letter from Raymond! Oh, 
at last, at last; now we shall know.^^ 

Then I tore open the seal and read it aloud. 

“ Mt dearest Molly,— T his is the last letter you will 
ever receive from your lover — 

His last letter? 

“ Quick !^^ cried Madame; “ read it quickly. 

‘‘ I am in prison at Toulon. I have but a few minutes 
given to me for this letter, in which I should have said so 
much had I time. My dear — my dear — I am about to die. 
Farewell. Try to forget me, my poor heart. Oh, think of 
me as one who lived in thy heart for a little and was then 
called away. I am to be guillotined for an English spy in 
the very place where, ten years ago, they shot my father. 
It is strange that my death should be like his, and in the 
same way. I am not a spy, as you know; but I have failed 
to convince my judges. 1 was tried this^ very day, and I 
am to die to-morrow morning amidst the execrations of the 
people. Is not this a strange destiny for father and son? 
Kiss my mother for me. By the time this letter reaches 
you she will be already conversing with the spirit of her 


86 


THE HOLY 

son as well as that of her husband; for, my dear, where 
could my spirit rest if not near thee? And, if my fathers 
soul hath obtained this privilege, why not mine? My spirit 
can have no terrors for thee. I had much to tell; but now 
you will never hear what has happened to me, and why. 1 
am promised that this letter shall be sent to thee. To- 
morrow I am to die. Farewell — farewell — farewell. Oh, 
Molly, my sweet girl, I kiss the place where I write thy 
name. Farewell, my dear. Farewell — 

I know not how I was able to read this letter aloud, for ^ 
every wprd was like a dagger plunged into my heart. Oh! 
a thousand daggers would have been better than this letter 
so full of love and pity, and yet so terrible with its message. 

Pass over this day. Think, if you can, how Madame fell 
upon her knees and prayed — not for herself, but for me; 
think how I sat with dry eyes speechless; think how my 
father came and wept; think how all the time the poor 
mad lady laughed and sung as happy as the blackbird in 
the orchard, and repeated, like a parrot in a cage: ‘‘ He 
will come home soon; he will come home soon.^' 


CHAPTER X. 

IH THE TOWEK. 

It was not until six months later, and under circum- 
stances which will be related in their place, that we heard 
what happened after Raymond left Aix. 

The village of Eyragues is about ten or twelve miles 
from Aix, along a dusty, white road, with plane-trees on 
either side or avenues of the spreading poplar, or when a 
village or a farm-house is passed, cypresses and chestnuts. 

It was late in the afternoon when he arrived at the place. 

A low hill rises, steep on the south side, and on the west 
with a gentle slope. The village stands upon the slope, 
and on the top of the hill, where the clilf looks over the 
valley of the Durance, stood the Chateau. Here the valley 
is broad, and the stream shallow, running over its gravel 
bed with a melodious ripple, as if it was the most innocent 
brook in the world, though no river is more dangerous, by 
reason of its sudden inundations. In the clilf overlooking 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


8i 

the river there are caves, partly natural, partly artificial : 
these are used as dwelling-houses by the poorer peasants 
and the shepherds, the entrances being closed with wood. 
The village itself consists of one sloping street, in the mid- 
dle of which is the church, and beside it the presbytere, or 
vicarage; opposite to the church, the village inn, with three 
shrubs in great green casks before the door, and the bunch 
of dry brier hanging over the door. 

As Eaymond drew nearer, approaching the village from 
the west, he remarked two or three things which seemed 
strange. There were no cattle in the meadows. Why, the 
meadows were formerly full of cattle. The bed of the river 
seemed to have grown broader than he remembered. When 
one revisits places, seen last in childhood, they generally 
look smaller. The buildings in the valley were roofless; 
the caves showed no sign of inhabitants. 

He entered the street. There had been quite recently a 
dreadful fire, and most of the houses were destroyed 
wholly, or in part. Those which had escaped were shut 
up. The village auberge had its bush above the door, and 
its three shrubs in green tubs in front; but the door was 
closed, and the shrubs were dead. 

And then he heard footsteps. At last, then! There was 
some one in the village. An old woman came out of a cot- 
tage beside the inn. She came hobbling upon two sticks, 
looking curiously at the stranger. She was bent with years, 
wrinkled, and decrepit. She advanced slowly. Suddenly 
she burst into a cackling kind of laugh not pleasant to 
hear. 

‘‘ Ho, ho!” she cried. You are come at last. Oh! I 
knew you would come some day. I told him that you 
would come.'’^ 

“ Who am I, then?” 

I knew very well that you would come. But I knew 
that you would not come before the proper time. Oh, every- 
thing in its place. First the inundation; that carried away 
his cattle and destroyed his meadows. Next the burning; 
that took away his village. What has he left to take? There 
is only himself, or his son. Are you come for him, or shall 
you take his son?” 

Eaymond remembered her now. But she was old when 
he had last seen her, ten years before; already an old 
woman, living with her grandchildren. 


88 


THE HOLY KOSE. 


‘‘ I know you. Mother Vidal, he said. Why, what, 
in Heaven’s name, has happened?” 

“ You are young again. Monsieur le Comte. Those who 
come back from the dead do well to resume their youth. 
Ill heaven we shall all be young and beautiful. Hush! He 
is horribly afraid. At sight of you I think he will drop 
down dead. ” 

‘^Who?” 

‘ ‘ Louis Leroy. Who else?” 

“ Where are the people, then?” 

They are gone. The war took some; the inundation 
took some; the burning sent the rest away. The village is 
deserted. The people would stay no longer in a place ac- 
cursed, lest something worse should befall them. But, as 
for me, I am old. Hothing can hurt me now.” 

“Why is the place accursed?” 

“Is it for you. Monsieur le Comte, to ask such a ques- 
tion? The cure told him, when he went away, that the 
wrath of the Ion Dieu was kindled against him. Go up 
the hill ; you will find him at the Chateau. ” 

An empty and deserted village; the houses mostly burned 
down; nobody in the place. Here was a prospect of a pleas- 
ant night. 

Eaymond went on up the hill, and before long came to 
the top, on which the Chateau stood. Alas! the modern 
part of the house was destroyed, only the shell remaining, 
and beside it the ancient tower. The gardens were grown 
over; the farm buildings were in ruins; the great dove-cote 
was empty. There were no signs of life about the place at 
all. 

There was yet about half an hour of daylight, and Eay- 
mond sat down to make the most of it. He would have 
time to sketch the ruins, and he would then retrace his steps, 
and put up for the night at some auberge on the way to 
Aix. 

The tower, however, M^as not uninhabited. Presently a 
man came forth from the great door- way. 

He was dressed rather better than the peasants, but 
looked neglected, his chin unshaven, his hair without pow- 
der, his coat old and worn. When Eaymond, who had 
taken off his hat and was working bare-headed, saw the man 
at the door he rose to salute him. To his amazement the 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


89 


proprietor of tlie tower, if the man was the proprietor, 
shrieked aloud and staggered. 

Raymond ran to his assistance. 

“ Are you illp’ he asked. 

The man made no reply, but his lips trembled. Ray- 
mond saw before him a man of forty-five, or perhaps fifty. 
His face was wolfish — the face of a man who lives alone and 
thinks continually of wickedness — ^yet the features might 
once have been fine. 

“ I am afraid,^" said Raymond, that in this lonely 
place I have startled you. I am^ however, only a harmless 
traveler, and I have taken the liberty of sketching this ruin, 
in which I have an interest. ” 

The man recovered a little. 

‘‘ I am subject,^^ he said, biting his nails, “ to sudden 
fits of pain. You were saying, sir, that you are a traveler. 

‘‘ I am a traveler and an artist. It is my practice to 
make drawings of all the places which I visit. 

“ An artist! It is strange. What is your name, sir?^^ 

‘‘ My name is Arnold. Would you like to see my pass- 

“ Not at all, sir. Arnold! What is your Cliristian 
name?^^ 

“ It is Raymond. 

Then, sir,^^ said the man, speaking slowly, “ unless I 
am mistaken, your father^s name was also Raymond. His 
full name was Raymond Arnault, Comte d'Eyragues. He 
was killed, I believe, at Toulon, after the capture of the 
city by the Revolutionary army.'^ 

All this, sir, is quite true, though I understand not 
how you know it. 

“ I know it from the likeness you bear to your father, 
coupled with the fact that you bear his name — 

“ Were you a friend of my father^sr^^ 

Young man, your father was a great man. I was one 
of the canaille. He had no friendship for such as I. 

“ An old woman in the village mentioned the name of 
Louis Leroy — 

“ There is no Louis Leroy in this place. There has not 
been any one of that name for many years, he replied 
quickly. 

‘‘ Well, sir,-’'’ said Raymond, “ I am Raymond Arnault. 
But I am now an Englishman, and have only come here in 


90 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


order to see the place where I was born. That is natural, 
is it not?^^ 

“ Quite natural. I am the proprietor of the estates, 
such as they have become. A valuable possession, truly. 
The river has washed away my cattle and my meadows; a 
lire has destroyed my village; the people have gone; the 
house is in ruins. A valuable possession, truly. . 

‘‘ Is the old house in Aix also yours?^’ 

‘‘ That is also mine. But I can not let it, for tliey say 
that it is haunted. Then you do not know who bought 
this estate?’^ 

“ I have never learned.'’^ 

“ Well, it matters nothing. Louis Leroy — I knew him 
well — has been dead, I think, for a long time. You were 
not in search of him? No? You do not know that it was- 
he who denounced your father. Some sons might have 
sought revenge. You do not? That is well. Revenge is 
a foolish thing to desire. Better let him alone, even if he 
be still living.'’^ 

“ The man shall never be sought by me. If I were to 
find him — if I had my fingers on his throat — I do not say. 

‘‘ Ah, your blood is Proven9al — your hands would be at 
his throat! Yes, I think I see you. You have the Ar- 
nault face, and it is fierce when roused. Yes, you would 
make short work of Louis Leroy if you had the chance. 
Ha! ha! he will do well to keep out of your way. That is 
quite certain — quite certain. Ha, ha!’’ 

The man chuckled and rubbed his hands. The thought 
of Louis Leroy being throttled pleased him. He showed 
his teeth when he laughed, which made him look more 
like a wolf. 

“ Come,” he said, “ one of your family must not be sent 
away from this place. Share my dinner, and take what I 
can give you for a bed. Oh, it is not much — a poor meal 
and a simple pallet! But such as they are I offer them to 
you.” 

Raymond accepted willingly. The man was not prepos- 
sessing to look at, but one must not judge by first impres- 
sions. Therefore, he followed his host, thinking himself 
lucky to get the chance of a supper and a bed. 

His host led the way into the tower. The room into 
which the door — a great massive door, set with big nails 
and provided with a solid lock — opened was a room with 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


91 


stone floor, stone walls, and a vaulted stone roof. A sec- 
ond door in the side opened upon spiral stairs leading to 
upper rooms. The room was furnished with two chairs 
and a table. There was a stove in it, and the smell of 
some cookery. His host lifted a saucepan from a fire of 
wood ashes. 

“ You are ready for your dinner? Good; then sit down.'"' 

He poured out the contents of the saucepan into a dish, 
and set it on the table, with a long loaf of bread, the salt, 
and a bottle of wine. 

“It is a stew,^^ he said, “ of rabbits, rice, onions, and 
beans. Eat, Monsieur le Comte. 

Raymond was hungry, tired, and thirsty. He made ac- 
cordingly an excellent meal, drinking freely of the black 
and strong Provence wine. His host eat and drank but 
little. When the first bottle was finished he brought out an- 
other, and encouraged his guest to talk, asking him a hun- 
dred questions, and appearing deeply interested in his re- 
plies; so that the young man freely spoke of himself — of 
his circumstances, and the condition of his people; how his 
mother had lost her reason, and his father’s sister had mir- 
aculously preserved the Holy Rose, on which they had sub- 
sisted until now; but that the jewels being by this time all 
sold, he was to become the support of the family. 

“ I understand,” said his host; “ they have now nothing 
left, so that if you were not to return they would starve.” 

Raymond was also easily induced to show the drawings 
which he had made. 

“ Young man,” said his entertainer, biting his nails, 
“ you are going to Toulon, you say? I can show you all 
the best spots for an artist. Ho not forget to bring your 
port-folio of sketches with you. And upon my word ” — he 
looked Raymond full in the face — “ upon my word, yomig 
man, I feel as if your business was already completed, and 
you were standing where your father stood. It will be 
deeply interesting. ” 

It was then about ten o’clock. Raymond asked permis- 
sion to go to bed. 

“ This way,” said his host, taking the candle and mount- 
ing the stairs. “You will find nothing but a mattress and 
a blanket. Behold!” 

There were two rooms on this floor, divided by a partition 
wall. The one into which Raymond was shown was lighted 


92 THE HOLY ROSE. 

by a single narrow window, barred with iron and without 
glass. A mattress lay in a corner; there was no other fur- 
niture in it. 

You remember the place, without doubt; formerly it 
was a store-room; the accommodation is simple. 

‘'Thank you,"" said Raymond, “it will serve me very 
well. "" I 

“ I sleep in the next room. There is no other occupant 
of the tower. It is silent here at night when one is alone. 
There are ghosts, I am told, especially of your father. But 
I never see him. He was denounced, you know, by Louis 
Leroy, who was his half-brother. Ha! if you had yoftr 
fingers upon his throat! Good-night and good repose. 
Monsieur le Comte."" 

Raymond quickly undressed, and threw himself upon 
the mattress. In a few minutes he was asleep. 

In the middle of the night he had a dream. He dreamed 
that he woke up suddenly; the moon was shining through 
the bars of the window so as to send some light to the room. 
Then he saw, lying quite still and having no desire to move, 
the door between the two rooms slowly open. He was not 
in the least afraid, being in a dream, but he wondered 
what was going to happen. Then he saw his host standing 
at the open door. He had taken ofi bools and coat. For 
a few moments he stood as if uncertain. Then he began 
to move slowly and cautiously toward the mattress. Ray- 
mond saw that he had a knife in his hand. But he was not 
in the least afraid, because he was in a dream ; the man 
proposed to murder him, perhaps. That was interesting 
and curious. How would he be prevented? 

Suddenly the murderer sprung back, throwing up his 
arms, and with a moan of terror rushed from the room. 
And in the middle of the room, just where the moonlight 
fell, Raymond saw, in this strange dream, the figure of his 
father. This did not surprise him either. But he was 
glad that the murderer had been stayed in his purpose, and 
he wondered what he would say about it in the morning. 

When Raymond woke up the sun was already high; he 
rose quickly and dressed. His host was up before him. 
Strange to say, he had quite forgotten his curious dream. 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


93 


CHAPTER XL 

THE KISS OF JUDAS., 


Raymond forgot, I say, his dream of the man with the 
knife. Had he remembered it, he would have been 
ashamed of it, so friendly was his entertainer. He led him 
about the place, showed him how the greatest inundation 
ever known in the history of the Durance River had de- 
stroyed his cattle, overthrown his farm-houses, and covered 
his meadows with stones and gravel. “ But this,^" he said, 
always biting his nails, “ might have happened to any one. 
If your father were living, it would have happened just the 
same.^'’ 

“ I suppose it would,” said Raymond. 

Then the man led his guest through the village. 

‘‘When you were a child,” he said, “ the village was 
full of people. There were five hundred souls in this place. 
Here was the tayern where they drank; here was the 
church where they went to mass; under these trees the lads 
played at bowls on Sunday morning; many a time have I 
seen your parents watching the villagers on their way home 
after mass; in the evening they danced here.” 

“ You know the place, then? You are .not a native of 
the village?^' 

“ I have been here on business. They plundered your 
house at Aix; then they came on here and sacked the 
Chateau. The books and pictures they burned and 
trampled under-foot, the furniture they broke up, but the 
plate they carried off. However, the estate remained, and 
the village; now there is nothing. Then came the inun- 
dation; then these young men had to go to war; when the 
village was burned down there were not fifty people left. 
And now they are gone, and there is nobody except myself 
and an old woman who is mad. But all this would have 
hapi)ened whether your father was shot or no— would it 

“ I suppose it would,” said Raymond. “ One can not 
think that the wrath of Heaven for my father^s murder 
would fail upon innocent folk.” 

« No— no. It would fall on the head of Louis Leroy. 


94 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


Ah! if your fingers were once about his throat. However, 
the man is dead. 

The mail was very friendly, and yet Raymond was ill at 
ease with him, and he had a trick of glancing suspiciously 
about him as if he was afraid of something, which made 
Raymond uncomfortable. 

He was so friendly that he accompanied Raymond back 
to Aix, and from Aix to Toulon, where he said that he had 
business. He was so very friendly that he followed- the 
young man about everywhere, and seemed unwilling to 
suffer him out of his sight. 

At Toulon he acted as guide, and led Raymond to the 
spot where his father suft'ered death. 

“ Here, beneath these trees, he said, “ sat the Commis- 
sioners, Freron, young Robespierre, and the others. Eh! 
they are all dead now. They sat in chairs; the prisoners 
were brought here to be tried. Oh, they were all aristo- 
crats, and they had no chance. Among them were a few 
poor devils who were servants. They were shot, to deter 
others from serving Royalists. Some of them were ladies 
— oh, I assure you, beautiful ladies, but all pale and trem- 
bling with terror. Well, they had not long to wait. Some 
of them were mere children, some old men, some were young 
men, like your father. Some of them wept and lamented, 
especially the servants, when they saw that there would be 
no favor shown to any, but every man and woman must be 
taken impartially and placed in front of the soldiers; but 
most bore themselves proudly, like your father. Young 
man, there never was any one prouder than your father. 
I, who was standing by, remember the contempt with 
which he regarded his judges. 

‘‘ What did he say to the witness, his half-brother?^^ 

“ He said — nothing, the man replied with hesitation; 
‘‘ what could he say?^^ 

“ JDid he curse him?^^ 

He did not. 

‘‘ What has the lot of that man been since that day?^^ 

“ He had nothing to lose; therefore, if he is a poor man 
now, he is no worse off than he was before. 

‘‘ But he is dead, you sayr’^ 

“ Louis Leroy has been dead for a long timeF^ 

“ Had he children of his own?^’ 

“ He had one son only.^^ 


THE HOLY KOSE. 95 

“ Perhaps, then/^ said Raymond, ‘‘ Heaven will strike 
him in the person of his son/^ 

Here,^^ the man continued, ‘‘ each man stood to take 
his trial. On this spot stood the witnesses, when there 
were any. In your father's case there was one only; but 
he was enough. Here stood the prisoner when his turn 
came to be shot; here stood the file of soldiers. Oh, it was 
a day of vengeance for the Revolution." 

Raymond took off his hat reverently before the spot 
where his father had perished. 

“ Very likely," continued his guide, ‘‘your father might 
have escaped but for the man Leroy, who first caused him 
to be arrested— perhaps you did not know that — and then 
gave evidence against him. There were several thousands 
left in Toulon when the English went away. There were 
not more than eight or nine hundred shot. Very likely he 
would have escaped. As for that man Leroy," he went on, 
“ you would like to have your fingers in his throat, would 
you not?" 

“ If I had," said Raymond hoarsely, “ I would kill him 
here — where my father died." 

“ Ah! he is dead now. That is fortunate for him. He 
lived in great fear, because misfortune always fell upon 
him — just as it has upon me. But the thing he never 
thought upon, the danger he least expected, was the return 
of the Count's son. What should he do if he were living 
now?" There never could be eyes more full of meaning anil 
suspicion than this man's. “ What should he do?" 

“ I care not; what does it matter?" 

“ He would protect himself, would he not?" 

“ I suppose so. How leave me, if you please. I wish to 
be alone." 

The guide obeyed; that is to say, he withdrew a little. 
But he watched. Meanwhile Raymond tried to people the 
scene, now a peaceful market-place full of stalls and mar- 
ket-women, with the prisoners, soldiers, and commissioners 
of that day of massacre. Then he took out his sketch- 
book and made a drawing of the Place. 

When he had finished his drawing he remembered the 
Quay, where he had stood with his mother all through that 
fearful night, the shells hissing and bursting in the air, the 
flames of the arsenal making it as light as day. It was easy 
to find the place. From the Place d'Armes a street leads 


96 


THE HOLY HOSE. 


straight to the spot. The sight was very different now. 
The harbor was full of men-of-vyar, frigates, and all kinds 
of war-vessels, a sight which might have filled an English 
sailor’s heart with joy, giving rich promise of prizes. The 
Quay itself was covered with all kinds of ships’ gear. There 
was the sound of hammering and the running to and fro of 
men. For an outbreak of war with England was again 
imminent, and the work of the dock-yards was carried on 
night and day. 

Eaymond looked about him, trying to remember, which 
was in vain, where they had been standing. 

Then he took out his sketch-book again, and began to 
sketch. Behind him at a little distance a gendarme 
watched him. Beside the gendarme stood Raymond’s host 
and friend whispering furtively. 

When he had completed this little drawing he rose, and 
began to wander about the town, glad to be alon6. His 
work was done. He had seen his ancestral home, shattered 
and ruined; he had visited the old church at Aix where the 
bones of his forefathers were buried; he had seen the great 
house which had been their town residence; he had stood 
upon the spot where his father was shot, and upon the 
Quay, whence he was dragged with his mother by the En- 
glish sailors; now there remained nothing more but to go 
home. 

He wandered about the town, thinking of these things, 
and of his journey home, and of his sweetheart. Presently, 
he found himself at the fortifications. Without any 
thought of danger he sat down before a gate and began to 
sketch it. There was nothing especially interesting about 
the building, yet he made a drawing of it. 

He did not observe that the gendarme who had watched 
him making his sketch on the Quay had followed him, and 
was still watching him at a distance. When he had drawn 
the gate-way, he walked out of the town, having no object 
but to wander about aimlessly until the evening. On the 
following day he would begin his homeward journey.. 

Outside the town, half-way up the hill on the western 
side, there stands an outpost or fort, which, when the Brit- 
ish troops held the town, was also held by them, and called 
Gibraltar, because it was considered impregnable. It com- 
mands the town, and from its bastions a fine view is ob- 
tained of the harbor, the arsenals, the town, and the forti- 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


97 


fications. This fort was taken by Bonaparte. It was the 
first act by which he distinguished himself; and, once 
taken, the capture of the town was rendered easy. 

Raymond, following a winding-path, presently found 
himself within thes bastion, lie looked over the rampart 
and found that it commanded a beautiful view of Toulon 
Harbor, which, with the dock-yard, the walls, and the 
town, lay stretched out at his feet. Again he drew forth 
his book and began to sketch the view before him. Present- 
ly he heard footsteps approaching, but he thought nothing 
of them, and went on with his work. 

I arrest you in the name of the Republic. 

A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. Raymond 
sprung to his feet. It was a gendarme; behind the gen- 
darme were a dozen soldiers. 

“ Why do you arrest me:'^ 

“ I arrest you as an English spy, detected in the act of 
making a plan of the fortifications.'’^ 

Raymond laughed. The man pointed to his sketch, on 
which some parts of the walls were already drawn. 

“ Come with me,^’ he said. 

Raymond obeyed. Resistance, indeed, would have been 
impossible. The man took from him his sketch-book, and 
laid his hand upon his shoulder. 

The soldiers followed. W'hen they were within the town 
a crowd began to gather, and presently ominous cries were 
uttered : 

English spy! English spy! Death to spies !"” 

Then the crowd pressed closer, and cried the louder. 
Fists were shaken in Raymond’s face; voices were raised 
crying for immediate justice. ‘"A la lanterne The 
crowd grew larger, and the cries louder and more threaten- 
ing. 

There is no rage more unreasonable, swifter, and more 
uncontrollable than the rage of a mob. Raymond would 
have been torn to pieces but for the soldiers who had ac- 
companied his capture, and now surrounded the prisoner, 
and acted as a guard. 

At last he was within the prison walls and in safety for 
the moment. Outside, the mob raged and shouted; it was 
a warlike mob, composed chiefly of sailors and soldiers, 
whom the very word spy ” maddens. They would have 

4 


98 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


liked nothing better than to have the English spy thrown 
out to them. 

When Raymond found himself stripped of everything, and 
thrust roughly into a cell, he consoled himself by thinking 
that a charge so absurd could not be maintained. He 
should be released the next day. 

He was mistaken. 

In the morning he was taken before a magistrate. 

On the table were laid the sketches taken from his port- 
folio, his drawing pencils, his passport, his pocket-book, 
and his purse. 

The prisoner, asked to give an account of himself, stated 
that he was an English subject named Raymond Arnold; 
that he was an artist by profession ; and that he was travel- 
ing for his pleasure in France. 

On further examination he confessed that his name was 
Raymond Arnault, and that he was a French subject by 
birth, and the son of the ci-devant Comte d^Eyragues, con- 
demned to death for treason. He also confessed that he 
taught the young officers of the British navy the art of 
drawing plans of fortifications; he declared that he had no 
other motive in visiting this part of France but the natural 
curiosity of seeing once more his birthplace, and the place 
where his father died; also that he was actuated in making 
these sketches by no other motive than the desire of pre- 
serving alive his recollections of these scenes. 

His preliminary examination was short: now it was com- 
pleted, he was taken back to prison. 

Two days afterward he was again taken before the mag- 
istrate, who asked him a great number of questions as to 
the object of his journey, and the various places he had 
visited. His note-book was produced and he was asked 
why certain facts had been set down, and for what reason 
he had shown so great a curiosity into the condition of the 
country. Raymond replied as well as he could, explaining 
that these notes were nothing but the simple observations 
of a traveler. His answers were taken down without com- 
ment. He then requested permission to send a letter to 
the British Embassador at Paris. This request was at once 
refused, on the ground that he was not a British subject. 

On the third examination, the magistrate, who was not 
hostile or unnecessarily harsh, pointed out to the prisoner 
that his case was one in which the penalty, should he be 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


99 


found guilty, was nothing short of death; that the aspect 
of the case was most serious; that the relations between 
France and England were already strained; and that should 
war unhappily break out before his trial, it would probably 
go hard with him. Therefore, he exhorted him to confess 
everything, including the secret instructions given him by 
the British Government and the nature of the information 
he had collected. 

Finding that the prisoner remained obdurate, the magis- 
trate ordered him to be taken back to prison. 

He had alread}^ been in prison three weeks. He was 
forbidden to write any letters, or to communicate with the 
outer world at all. An ordinary criminal may get this 
indulgence, but not a spy. More than this, he was treated 
by the jailers with every indignity they had the power to 
inflict upon him, the men letting him understand daily that 
they would enjoy nothing so much as to murder a British 
spy. 

“ I could not understand, he told us afterward, “ I 
could never understand all that time how such a suspicion 
could possibly fall upon me. Nor was it till I heard the 
speech of the advocate for the prosecution, and the evi- 
dence, that I was able to see the weight of the suspicions 
against me. 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE TRIAL. 

If the time had been tranquil I suppose that Raymond 
would have been immediately released. But the air was 
filled with rumors and suspicions; the dock-yard of Toulon 
was active; ships were being fitted out; there was talk of 
nothing but war. Therefore the most innocent action, 
such as the drawing of a gate-way, or a sketch of the Quay, 
was liable to be exaggerated into the action of an English 
spy. Added to this was the fact, now known to all, that 
the prisoner was not a British but a French subject; that 
he was traveling under an assumed name; and that he w^as 
the son of one who had been instrumental in bringing the 
British troops into Toulon. 

He was brought to trial three weeks after his arrest, 
having been kept all this time in close confinement^, except 


100 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


for his examination by the magistrate. In accordance with 
French custom, he was in ignorance of the evidence, if any, 
on which the charge against him was to be supported; but 
he knew that he was accused of being a spy in the service 
of the British Government. 

I suppose that, innocent or guilty, there can not be a 
more terrible thing for a man than to stand a trial on a 
capital charge, and more especially on such a charge as 
this, where a hostile feeling against the prisoner is sure to 
exist. 

When Raymond found himself in the great Hall of 
Justice, placed^ in the prisoners’ box, he was at first con- 
fused and in a manner overwhelmed. The tribunal, as it 
is called, was occupied by three judges. On the right of 
the tribunal sat the jury, on the left was the prisoner, 
guarded on both sides by gendarmes. The advocate for the 
prisi)ner stood immediately before his client, so that he 
could communicate, and the counsel for the prosecution 
was on the opposite side. A large table below the tribunal 
was occupied by clerks, and the great body of the hall was 
crowded with spectators. The windows were so placed 
that their full light fell upon the features of the prisoner, 
so that no change of countenance could escape the eyes of 
ju^e or jury. 

The clerk first read the indictment. 

It was to the elfect that Raymond Arnault, born at the 
Chateau d’Eyragues, only son of the late Raymond Arnault, 
commonly called Comte d’Eyragues, who was shot for 
treason to the Republic, was a spy, engaged by the British 
Government to collect information as to the condition of 
the country, make plans of fortresses, learn the state of the 
arsenals, the number, armaments, etc., of ships fitted out 
or building, with all other facts and information which 
might be useful to the British Government and prejudical 
to the Republic. 

'I'he indictment read, the President began the trial by 
putting questions to the prisoner. These were nothing- 
more than those already put by the magistrate in his ex- 
aminations. They made the prisoner give his name, his 
age, and occupation; they inquired into the reasons which 
made liim undertake the journey, and why he traveled 
under a false name; why he made sketches; why he made 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


101 


certain entries in his note-book; why he asked questions 
everywhere. 

“ You traveled from Lyons to Arles in a water-coach/'’ 
asked the President, ‘‘ and from Arles to Aix by diligence. 
On the way you conversed with the other passengers. 

‘‘ I did. I was pleased, after ten years, to talk with 
Frenchmen again. 

‘‘ You asked questions of everybody.'’^ 

‘‘If I did it was out of pure curiosity. The questions 
were such as to call for no information that might not be 
published to all the world. 

“ What? You inquired into the condition of the army; 
you asked if the country was not drained of fighting men; 
you asked if the women were obliged to do all the work in 
the fields; you inquired whether the people were good Re- 
publicans, or whether they wanted the Bourbons back 
again; you call these questions such as might be published. 

“ 1 repeat,” said Raymond, “ that the questions I asked 
were solely out of curiosity. ” 

It appears that in France the judges examine and cross- 
examine a prisoner before the witnesses are called, and that 
they have thus the power to make him criminate himself, 
which is contrary to our custom. 

When the question was finished Raymond having to re- 
peat a dozen times his solemn denial that he was engaged 
and paid by the British Government, the witnesses were 
called. 

“I was curious,^ ^ said Raymond, “to see who these 
witnesses might be, and you may j udge of my astonishment 
when the first witness was no other than my host of Eyra- 
gues, and that he was none other than the man Louis Leroy 
himself; and then I understood all.'’"’ 

Yes, the man who had received and entertained him, 
who had given him advice, and accompanied him to Tou- 
lon, was no other than the man Louis Lero 3 ^ 

“ My name,” he said, in answer to the President, “ is 
now Scipio Gavotte; before the Revolution it was Louis 
Leroy. I am a proprietor. On the 20th of April last I 
observed the prisoner walking about the ruins of Eyragues, 
a village which has been burned and is now abandoned. 
He was making sketches. I accosted him, and inquired 
his name and business. I gave him dinner and a bed in 
my own house. He began by saying that he was an En- 


102 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


glishman, but on my discovering that he spoke Provencal, 
and had the air of a native to this country, he confessed 
that he was by birth a Provencal, and that he was traveling 
under an assumed name under protection of a British pass- 
port. I began, therefore, to suspect something, and accom- 
panied him to Aix, where I found him making sketches of 
the walls, and to Toulon, where he began, trusting to his 
passport, to make pla?i8 of the Quay and harbor and draw- 
ings of the ships. I gave him no warning, but communi- 
cated the facts to a gendarme, who watched him and ar- 
rested him. The prisoner seemed to me a man of great 
intelligence, and showed himself most curious in respect of 
everything connected with the conditions of the country.^’ 

He had nothing more to say, but the? counsel for the 
defense asked him two or three questions. 

“ Are you,^^ he asked, the same Louis Leroy on whose 
evidence the prisoner’s father was shot on December 19th, 
1793?” 

“ I am the same man.” 

“ You gave evidence, knowing that it would cause his 
death?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ You were his half-brother, I think?'’^ 

“ I was.” 

‘‘ And you purchased his confiscated estates?” 

“I did.” 

‘‘ Did you reveal these facts to the prisoner?” 

I did not. ” 

‘‘ Did you give the information which led to his arrest in 
the hope of getting him out of the way?” 

I gave the information for the good of the Kepublic.” 

The next witness was the commis-voyageur who had 
traveled with the prisoner in the diligence between Arles 
and Aix. This person deposed that his suspicions were 
aroused by observing the prisoner, who professed to be an 
Englishman, conversing with the country people in their 
own language; whereas the ignorance of Englishmen, even 
in Frencii — a language known and universally spoken by 
every other civilized nation — was notorious. He further 
stated that, on listening to the conversation, he found that 
the young man was asking the people questions concerning 
their political opinions, their views as to the Republic, the 
state of their industries, and the drain of the young men 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


103 


by the recent wars. Finally, he declared that he had seen 
the prisoner from time to time making notes and drawings 
in a little book which he carried. He identified the book, 
which was handed to him for the purpose, and pointed out 
— partly with indignation and partly, as a proof of the truth 
of his statement — that among the drawings was one repre- 
senting himself in an attitude grossly insulting. In fact, 
Raymond had drawn a picture of this man eating his break- 
fast like a hog. 

The counsel for the defense refused to ask any questions 
of this witness, and desired to confirm his testimony. All 
that he had stated was true. 

The next witness called was the gendarme who had fol- 
lowed and watched Raymond. He swore that he saw him 
sitting on the Quay drawing the ships; that he followed him 
and watched him while he made a sketch of the Porte de 
Marseilles; that he again followed him, and found him in 
the act of making a plan of the fortifications. 

Counsel for the defense asked this witness whether the 
prisoner had made any attempt at concealment. Witness 
replied that he had not. 

“ Did he not openly seat himself on the Quay and make 
the drawings before the eyes of all present.^^’ 

“He did.^^ 

“ Did he show any embarrassment or terror when you 
arrested him?^^ 

“ He did not. He laughed. " 

There were no other witnesses except the note-book and 
the sketch-book. 

Then the prisoner's counsel rose to make his speech. 

He began by relating, from the prisoner's point of view, 
the history of his life. He was born in this part of France, 
and was fourteen years of age when he was taken from 
Toulon by the British fleet, on the capture of the city; that 
he was carried, with his mother and aunt, to Portsmouth, 
where they were landed; and that he had lived in a small 
village near to that town; and that, finding it necessary to 
adopt some profession in order to make a livelihood, he 
had become a teacher of drawing and painting. To this he 
added the art of fortification and drawing plans, and that 
his pupils were chiefly young officers of the array. “ Gen- 
tlemen of the jury," he went on, “ consider, if you please, 
that this humble and obscure person was absolutely un- 


104 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


known to anybody connected with the British Government. 
He has never spoken to an official person; he is ignorant of 
politics. But it is not difficult to understand one feeling 
wliich survived in his breast, after ten years of exile, name- 
ly, love of France and the desire to see again his native 
country. It was to gratify this desire, and with no other 
object, whatever, that he made this journey. Why, then, 
did he assume the name and procure the passport of a 
British subject? It was in order to escape questioning 
about his origin and family. Like all emigres, he was un- 
certain of the reception he would meet, as the son of an 
aristocrat, and of one sentenced to death and executed foi- 
treason toward the Eepublic. But, gentlemen, it was not 
an assumed name; it was the name by which he was com- 
monly known in England — the Anglicized form of his owui 
name. As for the questions which he asked of everybody, 
I confess that I see nothing in them but such as would be 
prompted by the natural curiosity of one returning to his 
country after ten years — and those ten years the most mo- 
mentous and the most glorious in the whole history of the 
country. Gentlemen, there is his note-book; read it, I beg 
of you, with unprej udiced eyes. There is nothing in the 
notes, I submit, which would be of the least advantage for 
a foreign country to know. Then there remain the sketches. 
Gentlemen of the jury, examine these for yourselves. 
There are the ruined Chateau where the prisoner was born; 
the house in Aix which belonged to his ancestors; here is 
the Place d’ Amies of his town; here is a sketch of the busy 
and crowded Quay, with the ships and harbor; here is a 
drawing of the Porte de Marseilles; and here is the un- 
finished drawing which caused his arrest. Gentlemen, the 
gendarme who arrested him states that it was a plan of the 
fortifications. I submit that it is nothing of the kind. It 
would have been, when finished, a drawing of the view 
from the bastion on which he stood, showing the town, 
with the harbor, arsenal, and the walls. I can find in 
these drawings nothing that can disprove the prisoner's 
own statements. Add to this that there was not found 
upon him a single document of a suspicious character, un- 
less the pencil portrait of a young lady is suspicions; that 
the prisoner was but poorly supplied wdth money; that his 
.movements were open for all to see; and that every state- 
ment of his which could be proved has been tested and found 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


105 


true. There is one other point, gentlemen, that I would 
press upon you. The British held this town for several 
months. Do you think it possible that they should have 
gone away without taking a plan of the fortifications with 
them? Do you think it likely that they should have sent 
this young man on an errand so useless and so dangerous? 
Would any one be so foolish as to accept such a mission?” 

With these words the counsel sat down. So clear and 
reasonable was the defense that Eaymond would probably 
have been acquitted, but for a most untoward accident. 
There was heard from the street outside a great shouting 
and roaring of men, and an usher brought a note to the 
President, who read it, and after handing it to his brother 
judges, gave it to the counsel for the prosecution; evidently 
something had happened of importance, for he sprung to 
his feet, and began a speech of the most furious kind. 

I rise,” he said, “ to demand justice upon a traitor to 
the Republic — the son of a traitor. W^as he ignorant when 
he left England that the King of Great Britain had already 
resolved on war? Was he ignorant that war was to be de- 
clared immediately? Yes, gentlemen of the jury, imme- 
diately. War has been declared. The news has just 
reached this town. The huzzas of the crowd which you 
have just heard demonstrate the spirit with which we have 
received this news. Already the fleets which are to humble 
the pride of our enemies are preparing in our harbors; al- 
ready cur brave sailors are exulting in the approaching 
downfall of the enemy of freedom and justice. 

‘‘ Gentlemen, let us not be revengeful, but let us be just. 
Consider the circumstances. It is natural that the enemy 
should wish to learn everything possible concerning our 
armaments and the state of the country. Since then it is 
natural to expect that English spies are among us in dis- 
guise as innocent travelers, what sort of person would Pitt 
selcQt for a spy in this country? First, it is absolutely 
necessary for him to know' the language. But in Provence 
our common people do not speak French, but the Langue 
d’Oc.. Probably there is not one living Briton who knows 
that language. Some there may be who have read the 
Troubadours, and know' the tongue spoken in the Middle 
Ages, but for the common talk of the peasantry, the j^atois, 
there* needs a man wdio was born and brought up among 
them. Such a man he found in the prisoner. He is an 


106 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


emigre. His father was shot for treasonable correspond- 
ence with the Jlritish. The title and estates which might 
have been his are lost to him. It is the Revolution which 
has ruined him. Therefore, he hates the Revolution, and 
regards the success of our arms with envy and disgust. 
He had lived so long in his native country before his exile, 
that he can never forget the language of its people— in 
fact, he was already fourteen when he was taken away by 
a British sliip. On the other hand, he has been so long in 
England that he can now speak English perfectly, and pass 
himself off for an Englishman. While in this country, in 
appearance and in language he can appear, if he pleases, as 
an honest Provencal. 

There is, again, another circumstance in favor of the 
selection of this young man. He is an artist. That is to 
say, he can draw, paint, and plan — especially plan. In 
England his residence, when not employed in service of 
this kind, is Portsmouth, which is to Great Britain what 
Toulon is to France. There he enjoys the society of the 
British officers, to whom he teaches the art of making 
plans and drawings — of what? Of fortifications. So that 
we have in this young man all that combine to form the 
perfect spy. Given the conditions of his birth and his edu- 
cation and we might predict beforehand what would be 
his work. Poor, like all emigres ; filled with hatred to the 
Revolution; eager for revenge on account of his lost wealth 
and rank; an Englishman one day, a Provenf;al the next: 
intelligent, well educated, a draughtsman, and, perhaps — 
it is in the blood of Provence — brave. Behold the spy of 
Pitt! Behold the tool of the British Government! Yet a 
willing instrument, and, therefore, one which must be ren- 
dered useless for any future work, as a,n example and a dis- 
couragement.^' 

‘‘ All this time," Raymond tells me, “ while the advo- 
cate thundered, and even I myself began to feel that after 
all I must be a secret messenger of the British Government, 
I was filled with that strange feeling that the issue of the 
trial concerned some other man. Until the moment when 
I wrote the letter to you, which I thought would be my 
last, I was callous to an extent which I can not now under- 
stand. For certainly no man ever had an escape such as 
mine. " 

The jury, without hesitation, gave their verdict — the 


THE HOLY E08E. 107 

prisoner was guilty. Then the President sentenced Eay- 
mond to death, and he was taken away. 

Outside the court there was such a crowd as had never 
been seen before, yelling death to the English spy, and de- 
manding that he should be given up to them. 

Amid a storm of execrations he was taken back to his 
cell in safety. 

“Even then,^^ said Raymond, “in the midst of the 
savage faces, and with the certain prospect of death, I was 
insensible. It was as if I was playing a part, and that the 
principal part, of a play. 

What it was that supported him through this time of 
trouble I know not; but, remembering Raymond's dream 
at the Chateau and the strange events which followed, and 
his mother’s constant companionship with her dead hus- 
band, and the assurance which she received as to her son’s 
safety, I have formed a judgment which nothing can shake. 

At last the prisoner was safely lodged in his cell, the key 
turned, and the mob dispersed, hungering for the moment 
when he should be brought forth to be beheaded in their 
sight. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

AT HOME. 

It was in the second week of June when Raymond, as we 
judged, had been already dead for three weeks, that we re- 
ceived his last letter. Indeed, I can not bear to think even 
now or to speak of that terrible time, in which nothing 
could bring consolation, not even weeping. Raymond was 
dead. Then was all the sun taken from the heavens, and 
the warmth from the air, and the joy from my life. There 
were others who mourned for Raymond besides myself; but 
we women who lose our lovers are selfish, and we think not 
of any others. 

It is good for those who mourn and refuse to be com- 
forted, that they should be forced by necessity into think- 
ing of other things. It was about the end of October that 
I was compelled to turn away my thoughts from my own 
sorrows. I have said that with the arrival of peace and the 
paying off of the ships, the profits of our boat greatly di- 
minished. This decrease grew worse as ship after ship was 


108 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


paid off, and none were put into commission except to 
relieve the regular West India and Mediterranean Fleets. 
Many days during the summer of that year the boat re- 
turned with half her cargo unsold. If this ’was the case in 
the summer, when we looked to make our chief harvest, 
’\^diat was to be expected from the winter? Fay after day 
passed, and not enough business done to pay even the W'ages 
of Sally and her father. More than this; there was no 
longer any demand for our dried sloe leaves, and Ports- 
mouth herbalists bought no more of our drugs. 

I regarded this change at first without the least concern. 
Was it likely that the daughter of a substantial merchant 
should be rendered anxious by so small a matter? Besides, 
this was the most delightful season in my life, being in the 
first six months of my engagement, and, naturally, I 
thought all day long of llaymond. 

In winter w^e have little to sell except potatoes, onions, 
and cabbages. This winter it appeared that no one wanted 
to buy our things at all, because there were so many who 
sold and so few to buy. Thus it is with a seaport town. 
Alongw^ar gives rise to many new trades. Where there 
was one shop there are seen, after a few brisk years, ten; 
where there w'as one market-garden there are ten. Then 
Baymond went away. Was it likely that I should concern 
myself about the boat wFen I had to prepare for his de- 
parture! Whose hands but mine prepared his linen and 
packed his trunk? 

In the spring a great misfortune fell upon us. I mean, 
a misfortune apart from the dreadful letter of Raymond's. 
War was declared, and we thought to recover our losses, 
the dock-yards being busy day and night, the harbor full of 
vessels in commission, and Spithead and the Solent crowded 
with ships waiting for convoy. The promise of April was 
beautiful. Never were trees thicker with blossom. Then 
there came a hard frost one night which did dreadful 
damage, and after this a cold east wind which destroyed 
whatever escaped the frost. After the east wind the 
w'eather grew suddenly hot, and then came swarms of 
caterpillars, the like of which I have never seen before or 
since. They stripped the currant, gooseberry, and rasp- 
berry bushes of leaf and fruit; they left not a single straw- 
berry; they eat up our asparagus, our young peas, our 
beans, and our lettuces. They left ^s nothing. It w'as 


THE HOLY HOSE. 


109 


like the plague of locusts which fell upon the land of Egypt, 
and eat up every herb of the land and all the fruit of the 
trees. 

And now there was no use for the boat to go down the 
harbor, because there was nothing to put into her. 

Very soon, naturally, the day came when I had no more 
money to pay even the wages, and none for the housekeep- 
ing. Note that, like all the world, in the prosperous times 
we had kept a good table, and my father had taken his 
punch nightly, as if the fat times were going to last. I de- 
clare that I had no suspicion at all of the truth. My poor 
. father had always spoken of himself as a substantial mer- 
chant. It was thus that he qualified himself. Everybody 
regarded him as a merchant, who had retired with what is 
considered a substantial fortune. To be sure, I had never 
seen any evidence of that fortune; but there was no need 
to draw upon it, seeing that the garden provided amply for 
the needs of the house; and, besides, is a daughter to sus- 
pect her father of exaggeration? However, there was now 
nothing to be done but to inform my father of the circum- 
stances, namely, that we had nothing hardly to sell and no 
money for wages. For a garden must be kept up. If 
laborers are not continually employed upon it, how is any- 
thing to be made out of it? 

Nothing ever surprised me more than the effect of my 
communication, for my father first turned pale and then 
red. He then rose, and softly shut the door. 

“ My child, he said, and there his voice stuck. My 
child,^' he began again, and a second time he was fain to 
stop and gasp. ‘‘ Molly — this time he made an effort 
and succeeded — I feared that this was coming, but I 
would not worry you. What are we to do? What in the 
wide world shall we do?^^ 

“ Why, sir,'’^ I said, if you will find the money to tide 
us over this bad season I doubt not that we shall do very 
well, seeing that the war has begun again and times are 
brisL 

“ Find the money, child? I find the money? Molly, 
he whispered, “ listen, child; I have no money. Yes, you 
all think me a man of substance, but I am not. Molly, 
your father is a man of straw — a man of straw, child. He 
is worth nothing.’^ 

He rose from his chair, and walked about the room. 


no 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


beating his hands together. All his consequence vanished, 
and he now seemed to become suddenly thin. 

I have no money, Mollv."’^ 

“ But I thought— 

“ Yes, yes, I know. Why did I retire from the City, 
the only place where a man can find true happiness? Why 
did I come to this miserable village? Child, because I had 
no choice — because 1 was a bankrupt, and my creditors, 
after they had taken all I had, suffered me to withdraw 
unmolested. So I came here, and — Molly — ^tis hard for a 
man, who has been Alderman and Warden of his Company, 
and lived respected, to go among other men and own that 
he was bankrupt — bankrupt.'’^ 

‘‘ Oh, sirl’^ I cried, “ forgive me for ignorantly opening 
up the past. I could not know — 

“ Say no more, Molly, say no more. Let us consider. 
There is a little purse; let us hope it may be enough. Per- 
haps our friends may not learn the truth, if this will serve 
till next year.'’^ He opened his desk, and took out a purse 
containing fifty sovereigns. “ If this will serve, Molly. It 
is not my money, but your own, saved by me.^^ 

You now understand how I was dragged out of my 
trouble by necessity. We had fifty pounds for all our 
stock; we had to make it serve for six months and more, 
supposing that we did no trade for that time. But the 
potatoes and the cauliflowers turned out well, and in the 
end we pulled through, though with desperate shifts at 
home, so that no one suspected of the Alderman that he 
was not, as he always pretended, a substantial merchant. 

I then discovered, having my eyes opened again, as I 
said, by necessity, that the two ladies at the Cottage were 
threatened with straits as dreadful as our own, or more, be- 
cause, with a great garden and no rent to pay, it goes hard 
if one can not live; but these two ladies had nothing at all, 
except the mere hollow trunk of thin gold, from which the 
jewels of the Eose had all been taken. And now they must 
sell even that. 

‘‘ My dear,'"’ said Madame, since it hath pleased 
Heaven to call away our boy, for whom we broke up this 
Holy Relic, the possession of which, we were taught to be- 
lieve, secured the continuation of our house, I see no reason 
why the gold should not follow the jewels, and all be sold. 


THE HOLT HOSE. 


Ill 


When we have spent that money there will be nothing. But 
we are in hands which never fail. 

“ Oh, Madame!” I cried, “you and the Countess shall 
come and live with us. We will all live together, and talk 
about Raymond every day. ” 

They did come to live with us, but, as you shall see, 
under happier conditions than we looked for. 

The Vicar took away the Rose, and brought them money 
for it. Never was any man more taken with a work of art 
than the Vicar with the Rose. He loved to look upon it; 
he would make it the text for a discourse upon the Popes 
of. Avignon; upon the early Protestants of Provence; upon 
the arts of the Middle Ages, and upon a thousand things. 
Yet, when he took it away, wrapped in flannel, he showed 
no sign of grief, but rather of satisfaction, a thing diflicult 
to understand. 

When it was gone one felt as if the blessing of the Pope 
had departed from the place; strange, that we, who are 
Protestants, and should not value the Pope^s blessing a 
farthing, should believe in a superstition which associated 
the extinction of the house with the loss of the Rose. Yet 
Raymond was dead, and the Holy Rose was gone. That 
could not be denied. Aunt Raymond was the last of the 
Arnaults, 

There are many strange and surprising things in this 
story. It is wonderful to remember how, in the wisdom of 
Providence, the son of the man Leroy, ignorant of his fa- 
ther’s crime, should have been brought to the village where 
his father’s victims lived; it is wonderful to think that his 
life was saved by none other than the sister of the man 
whom his father had murdered ; that he should become a 
friend of that man’s son; and that he should discover the 
truth in so sudden and unexpected a manner, on the very 
eve of his departure. 

Remember next how Pierre pra3"ed that we would not 
tell Raymond, and how, through that very ignorance, Ray- 
mond was brought mysbriously to the house of his father’s 
murderer, and received his hospitality; how he was lured 
on by him in apparent security to encounter the most 
dreadful risk; and how the same man, who denounced the 
father, also bore false witness against the son. Who that 
considers can doubt the Providential guidance of these 
things? 


112 


THE HOLT R08B. 


For my own part, I remember also the dream which 
Raymond had in the tower of the Chateau; and I see in all 
these things together, and in those which followed, the 
vengeance of God. 

The world is, however, full of those who scoff at such 
interpretations, and foolishly boast that they believe no 
more than they can see. Well, for my own part, I believe 
not only in what I see, but also in the things which even a 
woman’s mind may gather and conclude, from the things 
seen, concerning things unseen. 

For instance, was it for nothing that all this time the 
poor mad woman talked and laughed, always happy, always 
with smiles and songs, with her dead husband? She knew 
in a dim and uncertain way, that Raymond was gone away. 
She even knew that he was gone to Aix, to Eyragues, and 
to Toulon. She talked about him at those places, wonder- 
ing what he was doing, and so forth. From her husband’s 
replies she learned that all was well with her son — which 
we knew, alas! was not true; but one nia}" surely deceive a 
mother on this point — and that he would return home safe 
and well. How could he return home who was l}dng dead 
somewhere among the graves of the criminals? Well, I am 
now going to tell you exactlyVhat did come to pass, and 
show what little faith we possessed, who knew that the dead 
Count was always with his wife day and night, 3"et could 
not be brought to believe his most solemn and repeated 
assurances. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE RELEASE. 

Raymond sat in his cell, saved from the yelling mob, 
which wanted to have him delivered into their hands. 
Why, he thought, had his guards been overpowered it 
would have been all over, and quickly. Xow, those execra- 
tions and those furious yells would have to be faced again. 

It was six o’clock when they brought him back. The 
Governor of the prison followed him into his. cell. 

“I have to inform you,” he said, coldly, ‘‘that your 
sentence is to be carried into effect without delay. You 
will be executed to-morrow morning, at day-break. Expect 
no commutation of the sentence.” 


THE HOLY ROBE. 


113 


Raymond bowed. 

“ If there is any request you have to make you can do so 
now. 

y I should like to send a letter of farewell to — to a cer- 
tain English girl whom I was to have married. ’’ 

“ You can write the letter. Confine yourself solely to 
the facts, and to a brief farewell. It will be read, and, if it 
contains nothing treasonable, it will be forwarded. Hav(' 
you any other request to make?^' 

I should like,^^ said Raymond, “ if this request can be 
granted, my sketch of the ChAteau d’Eyragues to be in- 
closed in the letter. 

‘‘If it is not a drawing of a place of arms, and conveys 
no information, it shall be inclosed in yoiir letter. 

“ I thank you, Monsieur le Directeur. There is no other 
request that I have to make. 

‘‘ Will you see a priest? — nor It is sometimes the case 
that-a condemned criminal likes to make a confession or 
statement. You shall have a candle to enable you to do so. 
if you wish. ’ ^ 

“ I have nothing more to add,^^ said Raymond, “ to th(‘ 
statement I made in Court. 

The Governor left him, and they presently sent the 
writing materials; the turnkey standing over Raymond 
while he wrote the letter, which you have already seen. 
The letter must have been dispatched that very evening, 
otherwise, as you will discover immediately, it would not 
have been sent at all. 

His dinner, or supper, was brought to him at seven 
oYloek It was a sumptuous meal for. a prison, consisting 
of soup, a roast chicken, and a bottle of good wine. But it 
was to be his last, and people are naturally kind to a man 
who is about to die. 

His last! Astonisliing to relate, he devoured it with 
great appetite and heartiness, as if it was to be succeeded 
by thousands. When he had finished it he endeavored to 
compose his mind to the meditation and prayer in wliich he, 
intended to pass the night. 

“ Either,^* he says now, “I am naturally insensible to 
religion, which I am loath to believe — indeed, I am sure 1 
am not so cold a wretch — or 1 was sustained by some in- 
ward assurance, because, though my end was so imminent 
that every minute seemed to bring me closer to the ax, 1 


114 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


could not SO clearly face the situation as to question my 
conscience and confess my sins before Heaven; but con- 
tinually my thoughts turned toward you, my dear, and my 
mother, and this quiet village. Nay, though I knew that 
my dinner would be the last I should ever take, I devoured 
it with appetite, and only wished there had been twice as 
much. In vain I said to myself that in twelve hours or so 
I should be in the presence of my J udge, and my body 
would be lying a senseless, headless log; my thoughts were 
turned earthward, and wholly directed to thee, my sweet- 
heart.^^ 

I do not blame him in this; nor do I think that he was 
insensible to religion; because J am w'ell assured that, as 
he was sustained at the trial, and as he heard the execra- 
tions of the people without alarm, so he was now miracu- 
lously kept from the despair w^hich would otherwise have 
laid hold upon his soul. 

Surely, a more solemn time there can never be in a 
man’s life than the last night of it; especially if he knows 
that he is to die the next day, and if he be in such a con- 
dition of mental strength as to understand it. There are 
so many wretched criminals hanged every year that we 
think nothing of the anguish, the terror, the remorse of 
their last night upon the earth. Of some, I know, it is re- 
ported that they drink away their terrors, and go to the 
fatal tree stupid with liquor; and of others, that they sleep 
through the whole night, apparently careless of their corn- 
ing end. 

It W'as about ten o’clock that Raymond was interrupted 
by footsteps outside his door, and the turning of the key in 
the lock. 

He started to his feet. Was he — the thought made his 
heart stand still — to be taken out in the night and thrown 
to the mob? 

“I thank you. Monsieur le Directeur ’’-—Raymond 
started because he thought he knew the voice — and I w ill 
not trouble you to w^ait. My orders are to put certain 
([uestions to the prisoner alone. Leave one of your men 
outside the cell, and he can conduct me to the door. Good- 
night, Monsieur le Directeur. ” 

The door was thrown open and an oflicer entered, wear- 
ing a military cloak thrown over his shoulders, and cover- 
ing half his face. He shut the door carefully, put the lamp 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


115 


he had taken from the turnkey upon the table and threw 
back the cloak. 

“ Heavens, it is Pierre 

“ Hush!^^ It was none other than Pierre Gavotte, but 
no longer in rags. Pierre Gavotte, Lieutenant of the Forty- 
ninth, in uniform. Hush! There is no time to spare. 

“ My friend, you are come to say farewell. 1 did not 
expect to see a friendly face again before I died.^^ 

‘‘ I come with an order from the General-Commandant 
to put certain questions to the English spy. Well, here 
I am!^^ He threw out his arms, and laughed as if he had 
kept an appointment to an evening^s amusement. 

‘‘ And your questions?’^ 

“My first question — he hesitated. “Raymond, do 
you know — have they told you — who I am:^^ 

“ Why, you are my old friend and enemy, Pierre Ga- 
votte. Who else should you be?^^ 

The name had escaped him at the trial; in the discovery 
that Leroy and the witness were the same. Raymond paid 
no attention to his assumed name. This was a happy ac- 
cident, if anything can be called an accident in the course 
of this history so manifestly Providential. 

He held out his hand. Pierre hesitated a moment. Then 
he took it. “ Yes,^^ he said. “ Yes, we can shake hands 
now. 

“ It has been impossible, he explained, “ for me to 
have access to you until now. I discovered a week ago the 
name of the so-called English spy, and I knew that it must 
be no other than you. Oh! my friend, you a spy! I have 
been considering and devising. Now I have completed my 
plan.'^ 

“ Your plan?^^ 

“ Certainly; my plan. Why not? What is the good of 
having friends if they do nothing for you? You are to es- 
cape, Raymond. 

“ Escape? Why, Pierre, who is to take me through 
these stone walls? There is no time, either. I am to die 
at day-break.’^ 

“ Everything is arranged if you will do exactly what I 
order. Will you promise that? I give you freedom, Ray- 
mond, if you will act by my orders. It is for Molly's 
sake," he added. 

“I promise." 


116 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


“ Then change your clothes with me. Quick; time 
presses. ^ " 

“ Change with you? Why, what will you do? Pierre, 
I understand you now. You think that we are so much 
alike that I haVe only to walk out in your uniform, and I 
shall pass for you. ’ ' 

“ That is, my friend, exactly my plan. That is, you 
have guessed a part of it. But as you would infallibly be 
found out if you went on parade, that is not all my plan.'’ 

“ And what about yourself?” 

Pierre laughed. I had to make two plans; one for 
you, and one for me. WTiat do I do, when 3 ^ou are gone? 
My man outside — whom I have bribed — returns for me, and 
lets me out by the Governor’s private entrance when he is 
asleep. I go home to my barracks quietly. No one will 
suspect me, and presently 1 get a letter from you telling 
me that you have arrived in safety.” 

All this was pure fiction. 

“ Are you quite sure, Pierre, that you are safe?” 

“ My dear friend,” he replied earnestly, I am as sure 
of my future as I am of your escape, if you will do exactly 
as I order you. There can be no doubt whatever of my 
future.” Again he laughed, and looked so careless and 
light-hearted that one could not choose but believe him. 

“ A Field-Marshal’s bdton — or — ” 

That, or the other fate common to soldiers,” said 
Pierre. ‘‘ Quick, now; undress and change. Think of 
Molly, not of my future.” 

“You are now complete,” he said, five minutes after- 
ward. “ Upon my word, Raymond, you make a pretty 
lieutenant. But stand upright; swing your shoulders. You 
civilians never understand a military walk; clank your 
heels, rattle your sword, look at the turnkeys at the gate as 
an officer looks at his men, without fear and with author- 
ity; but keep your face in shade. W^hen you leave the cell 
follow the turnkey without a word. Do you understand so 
far?” 

“ Yes; so far.” 

“ Very well. Outside the prison is a sentry who will 
call for the word. It is ‘ Espion Anglais.* Turn to the 
right, and walk straight along the street until you come to 
a little wine-shop with the sign of the Bleating Lamb. 
Enter this shop, and without saying a word walk through 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


117 


it and up the stairs to the room above. Do you under- 
stand all this?’'' 

Perfectly. Shall I wait there for you?” 

No. You will there find a young lady. You will 
obey her. Now, my friend, farewell.” 

‘‘ We shall meet again.” 

“ Perhaps. I do not know. Farewell. If— say rather, 
when you get home in safety, give this note to Miss Molly, 
and ” — he pulled off the gold lace knot that hung from 
his sword-handle — “ give her this as well. Tell her it is 
the badge of my honor that T give her. She will explain 
what that means. Now, farewell, Paymond.” 

'‘Farewell, Pierre.” They clasped hands for the last 
time, and looked each into the other’s face. At the last 
moment a doubt crossed Raymond’s mind. " Y^oti are 
quite sure — perfectly sure, Pierre, that you are in no danger 
whatever?” 

“Perfectly sure,” he replied; “ I know perfectly well 
where I shall be to-morrow morning. There is a thing 
concerning myself that Molly knows, and Madame Claire. 
When you get home, ask them to tell you. I shall not 
mind your knowing it then. Forgive- me, friend; it is the 
only secret that I have kept from you, and even this I only 
discovered the day before I came away from Porcheste]-. 
Go now!” 

He kissed him, French fashion, on both cheeks. 

It all happened exactly as Pierre had arranged. The 
turnkeys glanced a moment at the officer, and let him out. 
The sentry demanded the word and suttered him to pass. 
He was a free man once more. In the Place d’Armes, 
through which his way led, stood the guillotine, tall and 
slender, which was set up to take oft' his head; the work- 
men were still engaged upon the scaffold. Presently he 
came to the wine-shop with the sign of the Bleating Lamb, 
its doors open. Raymond walked through it unchallenged 
and up the stairs, all this exactly in accordance with his 
instructions. 

When I received Pierre’s letter he had been dead for 
nearly six months, so long did it take Raymond to effect 
his escape from the country. 

“ I promised,” he said, “ to write to you if ever I had 
the chance of doing something worthy. The chance has 


118 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


come, but not in the way you thought and I hoped. I have 
set Eaymond free. The guilt of my father is atoned, and 
the life of your loYer is saved for you. What more could I 
desire or expect? Let Madame Claire know that I was not 
ungrateful or forgetful. If, as she thinks, there is another 
life beyond the grave — my grave will be among the crimi- 
nals and the outcasts — perhaps the sin of my father will 
not follow me there. Farewell, and be happy. 

‘‘ So, Monsieur — this was the young lady who was to 
meet Raymond — ‘‘I have expected you for two hours. 
Dieii I you are exactly like Pierre Gavotte. Are you broth- 
ers, by accident? Strange accidents happen off the stage 
as well as upon it. Well, I promised that I would ask no 
questions, but you must do exactly what I order you. Very 
well, then. Oh, I know who you are, because I was in the 
Court to-day, and saw the trial! What? You are no more 
a spy than I arn, and you would have been acquitted but 
for the news of the war, which turned their heads. You 
played with great dignity the part of hero in the last act 
but one. Believe me, sir, it is only gentlemen who preserve 
their dignity at such moments. I understand good play- 
ing. You looked as if you were so strong in your inno- 
cence that you would not show any anxiety or irritation, 
even when the was thundering for justice. She 

rattled on without pause or stop, being a pretty little black- 
eyed girl, well formed but slender. “ Understand, then. 
Monsieur, that I am an actress. We trust our lives to each 
other — 1 to you, because this is a job which the First Con- 
sul would regard with severe displeasure. But you are in- 
nocent; first, because you look so; next, because you say- 
so; and, lastly, because Pierre Gavotte — who is the soul of 
honor — says so. Therefore, I am pleased to protect inno- 
cence. On the stage I am frequently innocent myself, 
and, therefore, I know what it is to want protection. Now, 
listen and obey. In the next room you will find the dress 
of a laq^iais. Go and put it on. First, however — she 
took a pair of scissors and cut off his hair, which was tied 
behind, and cropped the rest so as to hang over his ears, 
as is the way with the common folk — “ There — now 

change your dress. You are a Provenqal: you speak 
French badly; with me you talk in ycur own language; 
you are a little lame — let me see you walk — no, this is the 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


119 


way that lame men walk. You are also a little deaf, and 
you put up your hand to your ear, like this — turn your 
head a little, and open your mouth, and say ‘ Hein!^ So; 
you are an apt pupil. JRemernber to be respectful to your 
mistress, who will sometimes scold you; above all, study 
the manners of servants. AVe are to start to-morrow for 
Marseilles; you will, perhaps, be able to pass over to Spain, 
but you must not run risks. After Marseilles, I am going 
north to Burgundy, where we shall be near the frontier, 
and you may get across in safety. 

‘‘ I understand everything. • 

“ As for your papers, I have them. They will be found 
perfectly regular. All this. Monsieur, I do for you at the 
request of Lieutenant Gavotte, who is, it seems, your 
friend. I hope that no suspicion will fall upon him.'’’ 

‘‘ He declares that he is in no danger whatever,” said 
Raymond. 

“He is not my lover. l)o not think that. All other 
men make love to me if they can; but Pierre does better. 
He has protected me from those who delight to insult an 
actress. If we were found out, Monsieur, my servant who 
is lame and deaf, remember we should all three have an 
opportunity of looking into the basket which Madame la 
Guillotine keeps for her friends.” 

“ I assure you. Mademoiselle, that when I left Pierre he 
was laughing at the danger.” 

“ That is bad,” she said, shaking her head. “ Men 
must not laugh when they go into danger. It brings bad 
luck.” 

The occupant of the condemned cell remained undis- 
turbed; nor did the turnkey come to let him out by the 
Governor’s private entrance. He was left there all night 
long. 

Very early in the morning, before daybreak, he was 
aroused by two of the jailers. They brought candles, and 
informed him that in two hours he would be executed; the 
time being fixed early to avoid a conflict with the crowd, 
who would certainly attempt to tear him in pieces. 

They asked him if he wanted anything; he might have 
coffee if he chose, or brandy, or tobacco. 

Tlie prisoner wanted nothing except a cup of coffee, 
which they brought him. Shortly before six o’clock they 


120 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


came again, and led him to the room where criminalg are 
prepared for the scaffold, their hands tied behind them, 
and their hair cut. 

Then a very unexpected thing happened. The prisoner 
remarked, when they began to tie his hands: 

“ Monsieur le Directeur, these ceremonies are useless. 
The execution will not take place this morning.^" 

The Governor made no reply, and they went on with the 
toilet. 

The execution, I repeat. Monsieur le Directeur, can 
not take place. 

‘‘Why not?” 

“ Because tlie prisoner has escaped.” 

“Escaped! The prisoner has escaped? Then who are 
you?” 

“ The prisoner has escaped, 1 repeat. He is now, if he 
is prudent, concealed so securely that you will not be able 
to find him, though you search every house in France. As 
for me, you would observe, if the light was stronger, that 
l am not the prisoner, though I am said to resemble him. 
I am, on the other hand, an officer of the Forty-ninth Keg- 
iment of the Line.” 

“ Is it possible?” cried the Governor. “ xAn officer? 
V/hat does this mean?” 

“ If you doubt my word, lead me to the guillotine. But 
if you desire to prove the truth of my words, call in any 
man of that regiment and ask them who 1 am. ^ ’ 

“ But you brought me a letter from the Commandant.” 

“ It was a forgery. I forged the signature. ” 

“ But— how did the prisoner escape?” 

“ He went out of the prison dressed in my hat and cloak. 
I gave him, besides, the password.” 

“ Where is he now, then?” asked the Governor, stupidly. 

“ Why, if he is a wise man he will, certainly, keep that 
a secret.” 

“ If the thing be as you say,” said the governor, “ you 
have yourself. Monsieur, committed a most serious crime. 
What! you, an otiicer in the army, to release an English 
spy?” 

“ That is true. I have committed a very serious crime, 
indeed. It is so serious that I might just as well have 
suffered the execution to go on. Meanwhile, I must ask 


THE HOLT ROSE. 


121 


you to take me back to the ceJl, and to acquaint my Colonel 
immediately with what has happened.^' 

There was a great crowd upon the Place d^Armes, where 
the guillotine was standing on a scaffold ready to embrace 
her victim. A military guard was stationed round the 
scaffold to keep oft‘ the crowd. Early as it was, the square 
was crowded with people, chiefly soldiers and sailors, who 
were in great spirits at the prospect of seeing the head 
taken off an English spy — an agent of prefidions Albion. 
They sung songs, and played rough jokes upon each other. 
Among them were the country people, who had brought in 
their fruit and vegetables for the market, and a few serv- 
ants who were out thus early to see the execution as well as 
to do the day^s marketing. 

The criminal was late. The time crept along. Decidedly 
he was very late. Had anything happened? Were they 
going to pardon him at the last moment? Had he con- 
fessed his guilt and revealed the whole of the English 
plots? Would it not be well to storm the prison as the 
Bastile had been stormed, and to seize the spy whether he 
had confessed or not? 

Presently, men came and began to take down the scaf- 
fold, and it was understood that there would be no execu- 
tion that day, because the prisoner had escaped. 

The town was searched; house by house, room by room. 
At the gates no one in the least corresponding to him liad 
passed. The prisoner must be somewhere in the town, 
uood. When found he should be torn to pieces by the peo- 
ple. But he was not found. 

Three days afterward, however, there was a most excit- 
ing spectacle in the Place d^’Armes; a sight such as had not 
been witnessed since December, 1793 — a military execution. 

Everybody now knew that Lieutenant Gavotte, of the 
Forty-ninth Regiment, had effected the escape of the En- 
glish spy. It was whispered by those who know every- 
thing, that a great plot had been discovered in which many 
of the French officers themselves were implicated. None, 
however, except the Colonel, knew for certain why he had 
done this thing. In his trial he simply said that the so- 
called English spy was an innocent man whose story was 
true; that he had been kind to himself when a prisoner in 


122 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


England; and that, therefore, he had assisted him to es- 
cape. 

His Colonel went, at the prisoner's request, to see him. 
I know not what passed between them, but on his return 
the Colonel was greatly agitated, and openly declared that 
no braver officer ever existed than Lieutenant Gavotte, and 
no better man. 

They brought him out to die between six and seven in 
the morning. First they tore away his epaulets, then his 
cuffs, and then his facings. He was no longer an officer; 
he was no longer a soldier. But his face showed no sense of 
shame or fear. 

Among the spectators was a man who, to see the show, 
had been sitting under the tiers all night long. He was a 
restless man, who moved and fidgeted continually, and bit 
his nails; his eyes were red; he spoke to no one. 

When they led out the young man he nodded his head. 

Good,^^ he said. “ First the flood, then the fire. The 
property is first destroyed, and then the son. 

When they set Pierre in his place this man nodded his 
head again. 

“ Good,^^ he said. “ On that spot died the Count. 

They offered to tie a handkerchief round the prisoner's 
eyes, but he refused, and stood with folded arms. 

“ Good!’^ said the spectator again. “Thus the Count 
refused to be bound. 

Then at the word they fired, and Pierre Gavotte fell 
dead. 

“ Thus fell the Count,^^ said the specator. He walked 
slowly from his place and stood beside the dead body. 
“ This is mine,^' he said; “lam his father. 


CHAPTER XV. 

COHCLUSIOH. 

There is one more chapter to write, and my story, which 
I am never tired of telling, will be finished. In the years 
to come it will be told by my children, and by my chil- 
dreiEs children — nay, among my descendants, sure I am 
that my story will” never be forgotten, so wonderful it is 
and strange. 

Raymond was dead; he had been guillotined; his letter 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


133 


told us this; only the poor mad woman assured us (speak- 
ing through the spirit of her husband) that he was safe, 
and this we would not believe. 

Raymond was not dead; you have heard by what a mir- 
acle he was saved; hear now how he came home to us. 

It was on Ohristmas-eve. First, there was a great sur- 
prise for us, unexpected and astonishing. But not the 
greatest surprise of all. 

A sad Christmas-eve. The time was between six and 
seven. I was sitting beside Mme. Claire, on a stool before 
the fire. There was no candle, because these poor ladies 
could only afford candles when Mme. Claire was working. 
And to-night she was doing nothing. 

To Frenchwomen the feast of Christmas is not so great 
an occasion for festivity as that of the New Year, when 
they exchange presents and make merry. But Mme. 
Claire had lived ten years with us and understood our 
Christmas rejoicing. Alas! there was little joy for us this 
year, we thought, and there would be little in the years to 
come. 

As we sat there, in silence, my head in Madame ’s lap, 
the waits came to sing before our door, the lusty cobbler 
leading. They sung “ When shepherds watched their flocks 
by night, and Let nothing you dismay,^'’ with fiddle and 
harp to accompany. I believe the cobbler sung his loudest 
and lustiest, out of pure sympathy, because he knew that 
we were in trouble. 

“ Last Christmas — I began, 'but could say no more. 

Patience, child, patience!'’^ said Madame. “ The 
Lord knows what is best, even for two humble women. 
Though Raymond will never come to us, we shall go to 
him. ” 

‘‘ My friend — it was the poor, mad lady, talking to 
her dead husband — ‘‘ it is time for Raymond to come home. 
I thought I heard his footsteps; we have missed our boy — 

She looked about the room, as if expecting to see him 
sitting among us. 

“ Claire, my sister, when Raymond comes we will make 
a feast for him. There shall be a dance and a supper for 
the villagers. Raymond will come home to-day. My hus- 
band! Thou art always ready to make us hapj^y. To- 
day, Claire; to-day."’^ She laughed with a gentle satisfac- 
tion. “ We can not keep the boy always at home, can we? 


124 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


That is impossible. But he has not forgotten his mother. 
He is coming home to-day — to-day. 

One should have been accustomed to such words as these, 
but they went to our hearts; so great was the mockery be- 
tween our grief and the poor creature^s happiness. 

Then there came a single footstep along the road. I knew 
it for the Vicar^s, and it stopped at the cottage door. 

He came in, bearing in his arms something most care- 
fully swathed and wrapped. 

“ Ladies,’^ he bowed to all of us together, “ at this time 
of the year it is the custom in England, as you doubtless 
know, to exchange with each other those good wishes of 
Christian folk, one to other, which are based upon the 
Event which the Church will to-morrow commemorate. I 
wish for this household a merry — 

‘‘Nay, sir,^'Isaid, “can we have merry hearts, this 
Christmas or any Christmas?^' 

“ A merry Christmas he said, stoutly, “ and a haj)py 
New Year. Ay, the merriest Christmas and the happiest 
New Year that Heaven can bestow — 

Was His Reverence in his right mind? 

“ It is also,^^ he went on, “ the godly custom among us 
to make presents one to the other, at this season, in token 
of our mutual affection, and. in gratitude to the Giver of 
all good things. Therefore, Madame, I have ventured to 
bring with me my offering. It is this. 

He placed the parcel upon the table, and began to unroll 
the coverings. 

“ What?’^ he looked at me with a kind of fierceness quite 
unusual in his character — “ what! you think that I could 
look on unmoved at the afflictions of this innocent family?” 
(I declare that I never thought anything of the kind.) 
“ Y^ou think that I could suffer them to break up and de- 
stroy for the sake of a few miserable guineas, so priceless a 
relic as the Golden Rose, given to this family five hundred 
years ago? Never. Learn, Madame,” he bowed again to 
"Mme. Claire, “ that I have been the holder, not the bu3^er 
or the seller, of the jewels belonging to this precious mon- 
ument of ancient (though mistaken and corrupt) religion. 
I have now replaced every stone in its proper setting — you 
will not find one missing— and I give you back complete, 
just as when it was hallowed by the Pope at Avignon, your 
.lloly Rose/' 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


125 


He threw off the coverings, and behold it — the gems 
sparkling and the gold branches glowing in the fire-light; 
every jewel replaced, and the Eose as complete as ever; and 
most beautiful it looked, with its flowers all of precious 
stones. 

‘‘Pardon me,^’ he said, “the deception which I have 
2)racticed. I was determined to save the Eose, and, without 
my little falsehood (which may Heaven forgive!) you would 
not have taken the money. 

“ We must bring out the Holy Eose because Eaymond 
comes home to-day,^^ said the mad lady. 

“ Sir,^'’ cried Mme. Claire. “ Oh, sir, this is too much.'’’ 
She burst into sobbing and weeping and fell upon her 
knees at the table, throwing her arms round the Eose. I 
never knew before how much she loved it. 

“ It is one thing to restore to you the Eose,” said the 
Vicar, “ it is another to give you back the dead. Heaven 
alone can do that. Yet there was a legend, a tradition, a 
superstitious belief concerning this Eose, was there not? 
The House should never want heirs so long as the Eose re- 
mained in its possession. Why, it has never left your 
hands except to be, as we may say, repaired.” 

“ Alas!” said Madame, “ the tradition has proved false. 
It was, I fear, a human and earthly tradition, not war- 
ranted by the blessing of the Pope, which must have been, 
intended for some other than the lady to whom he made the 
gift.” 

“ Perhaps, Yet sometimes — nay. I know not — ” 

Here he hesitated, and looked from Madame to me, and 
from me to Madame as one who has something to com- 
municate, but doubts how to say it or what he should say. 
What could he have to say? 

“ Poor Molly!” he said, at length, laying his hand upon 
my head. “ Poor child! thou hast had a grievous time of 
trial. Hast thou faith enough to believe that there may 
still be happiness in store for thee?” 

I shook my head. There was no more happiness possi- 
ble for me. 

“ Strange!” he said, still with that hesitation. “ ’Twas 
an old legend, it seems a foolish legend. How can the 
blessing of a mere man have such merit? We may not be- 
lieve it. Yet — Sometimes we are deceived, and idle 
words prove true. It Jiath happened that things which 


126 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


seemed impossible have happened. Wherefore, Molly; let 
us hope — let us hope. But why connect such things as may 
happen with the Poper^^ 

I think we ought to have guessed something at these 
words. But Kaymond was dead. We can not expect the 
dead to be raised to life. And, besides, I was thinking of 
Madame, who was weeping, and praying, and praising God 
upon her knees: being carried quite out of herself, as I had 
never seen her before, except when she spoke like a prophet- 
ess to Pierre. 

Molly, said the Vicar, the ways of Providence are 
wonderful; we can not try to fathom them. If sorrow 
falls upon us, we must learn to be resigned; if joy comes, 
we must be grateful. My dear, how shall I tell thee what 
has happenedr^^ 

‘‘Is it some new misfortune I asked. “ Has my fa- 
ther — 

“Nay, it is no misfortune. And yet thou must sum- 
mon up all thy courage to hear the news which came to me 
this afternoon. Listen, then; and if I do not tell thee all 
at once, it is because I fear for thy reason. Thy father, 
child, knows the news, and he is already — but I anticipate. 
Sally knows, and she comes with liim in a few minutes. 
But I must speak slowly. Her father knows, because he 
brought him in the boat. But I am going too quickly. ” 

“ VVho has come in the boat — my father?’^ 

“No, Molly, no; not thy father. I fear, child, that I 
have broken the news too abruptly — let me begin again. 
If, I say, resignation is the duty of the sorrowful, a grate- 
ful heart, which is also the duty of the joyful, must be 
shown in a spirit that is tranquil and self-contained. Be 
tranquil and self-contained; and now, my dear, I have this 
day received a letter — this afternoon only — followed by the 
boat from the harbor with — with — the potatoes and onions 
and — and — the woman whom they call Porchester Sal — 

Was the Vicar going off his head? What could he mean? 

He was not, however, permitted to prepare my mind any 
more, for at that moment a man came running down the 
road, and the door burst open. 

It was my cousin Tom. 

“ I hear the footstep of my boy,’^ said the Countess. 

“Molly!’" he cried. “A Ghost! A Ghost! I have 
seen a Ghost!” 


THE HOLY ROSE. 


127 


His wild eyes and pale cheeks showed at least that he 
was horribly frightened. His hat had fallen off, and the 
whip which he generally carried had been dropped some- 
where in the road. 

“Molly! A real Ghost. When I saw him I said: 
* Who^s ^raid of a Ghost?^ That^s what I said. ^ Who's 
afraid of a Ghost? You'd like to kick me again, would 
you:' And with that I gave him one with my whip. AVould 
you believe it? My whip was knocked out of my hand, and 
I got a one-two with his fists — Well, any man may be 
afraid of a Ghost, and I ran away." 

“ A Ghost, Tom?" 

“ Molly, you remember that story about the fight and 
the kick in the face, don't you? I used to say that I had 
him down and was lajring on with a will. That wasn't 
true, Molly. I dare say I should have had him down in 
another round — no~— no — he will haunt me — it wasn't true 
at all. I never had him down, and he would never have 
gone down, because he began it; but he did kick me." 

“ Tom, that was Pierre Gavotte, not Raymond at all." 

“Ah! all of a tale; stick to it. Oh! Lord — here he is 
again!" 

Sally rushed in before him. 

“ Miss Molly, Miss Molly! I brought him up the harbor 
in the boat. We picked him up at Point. Here he is! 
Here he is! Not a bit of a Frenchman, though he is 
dressed in a blue sack and a cloth cap. Oh! here he is!" 

Oh! heavens, can I ever forget that moment? 'Twas 
Raymond himself. Raymond, strong and well, his arms 
stretched out for me. When he let me go, I saw that the 
Vicar and my father were shaking hands, and the tears 
were in their eyes. But Madame Claire was still on her 
knees, her head in her hands. And so we stood in silence 
until she rose and solemnly kissed her nephew. 

“ My friend," said Raymond's mother to her husband, 
“ I knew that your words come always true. You said 
that Raymond would come home to-day. We will have a 
feast to welcome the boy's return. And the villagers shall 
dance. " 

“It is, "said Mme. Claire, “the Blessing of the Holy 
Rose." 


THE EHD. 


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LIST OF AUTHORS. 


Works by the author of “ Acldie’s 
Husband.” 

38S Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

Works by the author of ‘‘A Fatal 
Doner.” 

240 A Fatal Dower 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

829 The Actor’s Ward 20 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

588 Cherry.... 10 


Works by the author of “A 
Woman’s Ijove-Story.” 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Griselda 20 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

02 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

2.36 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. . . 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

664 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 


797 Look Before You Leap 20 

805 The Freres. 1st half 20 

805 The Freres. 2d half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half 20 

8Q6 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half 20 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!”. .. 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built — 10 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice VersS. 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

819 A Fallen Idol 20 

R. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erliug the Bold 10 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader 20 

S. Baring-Gould’s Works. 

787 Court Royal 20 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “The Wearing of the Green 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 


a 


THE SEASIDE LlBliARY. 


Aline Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 20 

Walter Besaut’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besaut aud Rice 10 

vl.SO Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

541 Uncle Jack 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage; or, The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

S94 Doctor Jacob. 20 

Williaiii Black’s Works, 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeuy 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 


265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 


472 The Wise Women of Inveimess. 10 
«27 White Heather 20 

It, 1>. Blackiiiovc’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorua Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable Histoiy of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin... 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartuioor Tale 20 

632 » lara Vaughan 20 

633 The lilaid of Sker. First half. . ^ 
633 The Maid of Sker. Second half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. First lialf 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. Second half.. ^ 

Miss fli. E. Braddon’s Works. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

.56 Phantom Fortune ^ 

74 Aurora Floyd ^ 

no Under the Red Flag 10 


1.53 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. . 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 Tlie Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wyllard's Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

4?8 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 .Toshua Haggard’s Daughter.. . . 20 

48^ Rupert Godwin 2t 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited b}" Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Oul}’ a Clod .• 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

520 The Doctor’s Wife ... 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

.544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

.548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er's Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

.5.52 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 2f 

,557 To the Bitter End 20 

.559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

.561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

.567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy. ... 20 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon :... 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The Pen- 
alty of Fate 20 

881 Mohawks 20 

Works by Charlotte M. Braenie, 
Author of “Bora Thorne,’’ 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken W'eddiug-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madoiin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms., 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

^9 ” Prince Charlie’s Daughter . 10 


POCKET EDITION. 


Ill 


Charlotte M. Braenie’s Works 

(continued). 


S50 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 
ana’s Discipline 10 

2.54 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 Tlie Sin of a Lifetime. 10 

287 At War W'ith Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hilary’s 

Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A llitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation, 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

mai tie’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilidrop; or, 
The Romance of a \oung 

Girl 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 20 

792 Set in Diamonds 20 

821 The World Between Them 20 

853 A True Maerdalen 20 

854 A Woman’s Error 20 

Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 

15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley . 20 

Khoda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

T58 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too WeU 20 

T6f Joan 30 


768 Red as a Rose is She 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower 20 

862 Betty’s Visions 10 

Mary E. Bryan’s Works. 

731 The Bayou Bride 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red H-mse. 1st half 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. 2d half 20 

Robert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan. ... 10 
046 The Master of the Mine 20 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

.375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor 20 

E. Fairfax Byrrue’s Works. 

521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works,. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

.551 Baruara Heathcote’s Trial 20 

608 For Lilias 20 

liCwis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
hind. Illuslirated by John 

Tenniel 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 


595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 In a Grass Country 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories 10 

233 “ I Say No ;” or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. . 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 

701 The Woman in White, l.sthalf 20 

701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half. 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 

764 The Evil Genius 20 


IV 


THE SEASroE LH^RARY. 


Mabel Collins’s Works. 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter 20 

828 The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw 20 

Hugh Conway’s Works. 


240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 


Stories 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin 20 

804 Living or Dead 20 

830 Bound by a Spell 20 


J. Feniinore Cooper’s Works. 


60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers ; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman ; or, The Ab- 

baye des Viguerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack 'I'ier ; or, The Florida Reef 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins [ 20 

(xeorgiana M. Craik’s Works. 

450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 


B. M. Croker’s Works, 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 

260 Proper Pride 

412 Some One Else 

May Crominelin’s Works. 

452 In the West Countrie 

619 Joy ; or. The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford 

647 Goblin Gold 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack 

574 The Nabob: AStory of Parisian 
Life and Manners 


Charles Dickens’s Works. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. I 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II.... 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. I 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. Second half 

41 Oliver Twist 

77 A Tale of Two Cities *. 

84 Hard Times 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half.".*. *. ! ! 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 

94 Little Dorrit. First half . 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 

106 Bleak House. First half 

106 Bleak House. Second half.... 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half. .... 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 

131 Our Mutual Friend. (1st half). 

131 Our Mutual Friend. (2d half).. 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. .. 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins lo 

169 The Haunted Man lo 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. Second half 20 

439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures Fiom Italy, and Tlie 

Mud fog Papers, &c 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 20 
456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People 20 

676 A Child’s History of England. * 20 


Sarah Doiidiiey’s Woi*ks, 


338 The Family Difflculty lo 

679 Where Two Ways Meet lo 

F. Du Boisgobey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 20 

104 The Coral Pin. 1st half 20 

104 The Coral Pin. 2d half 20 


204 PiOdouche, a French Detective. 10 


ggS B B '^B B BBB 


POCKET EDITIOK. 


V 


F. Du Boisgobey’s Works 

(continued). 

828 Babiole, tlie Pretty Milliner. 

First half 

328 Babiole, the Prett}" Milliner. 

Second half 

453 The Lottery Ticket 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. 

522 Zi^-Z&g, the Clown; or, The 

Steel Gauntlets 

523 The Con.sequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 

648 The Andrei of the Bells 

697 The Pretty Jailer. 1st half 

697 Tile Pretty Jailer. 2d half 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 

half 

699 The Sculptor's Daughter. 2d 

half 

782 The Closed Door. 1st half 

782 The Closed Door. 2d half 

851 The Cry of Blood. 1st half 

851 The Cry of Blood. 2d half 

“The Duchess’s” Works. 

2 Molly Bawn 

6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Phyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 

30 Faith and Unfaith 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Deriug 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d... 

123 Sweet is True Love 

129 Rossmoyne 

134 The Witcl.iing Hour, and Other 

Stories-. 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories 

284 Doris 

312 A Week’s Amusement; or, A 

Week in Killarney 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 

390 Mildred Trevanion 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 

541 “As It Fell Upon a Day.” 

733 Lady Branksmere 

771 A Jiental Struggle 

785 The Haunted Chamber 

862 Ugly Barrington 

875 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. ... 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 

75 Twenty Years After 


259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” Jft 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II 2<* 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, The Mar- 
riage Verdict 20 

Maria Edgeworth’s Works. 

708 Ormond 20 

788 The Absentee. An Irish Story. 20 

Mrs. Annie Edwards’s Works. 
644 A Girton Girl 20 

834 A Ballroom Repentance ^ 

835 Vivian the Beauty 20 

836 A Point of Honor 20 

837 A Vagabond Heroine. 10 

8^ Ought We to Visit Her? 20 

839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion... 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 10 

842 A Blue-Stocking 10 

843 Archie Lovell 20 

844 Susan Fielding ^ 

845 Philip Earnscliffe; or. The Mor- 

als of May Fair ; . . 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. First half. 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. Second half 20 
850 A Play Wright’s Daughter 10 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 20 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 20 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half .. 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 20 

36 Adam Bede 20 

42 Romola 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe 10 

728 Janet’s Repentance 10 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such 10 

B. li. Farjeon’s Works* 

179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

657 Christmas Angel 10 

G. Manville Feiin’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 10 

Octave Feuillet’s Works. 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse ” 10 

Mrs. Forrester’s Works. 

80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 10 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 


71 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


Mrs. Forrester’s Works 


(continued). 


484 Althougli He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales 10 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 20 

721 Dolores 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady 20 

726 My Hero 20 

727 Fair Women 20 

729 Mi^non 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades 20 

734 Viva 20 

736 Roy and Viola 20 

740 Rhbna 20 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
an’s Sake 20 

883 Once Again 20 

Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 

314 Peril 20 

672 Healey 20 

R. £. Fraucillou’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

860 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life.... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

^ Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. H 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow' Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

James Grant’s Works. 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt... 20 
781 The Secret Dispatch 10 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

565 Cara Roma 20 

Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

H. Rider Haggard’s Works. 

432 The Witch's Head 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines, 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

690 Far From the Madding Crow'd. 20 


791 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 


John R. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 26 

368 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

849 A Wicked Girl 20 

Mrs. Cashel-Hoey’s Works. 

313 The Lover’s Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works. 

509 Nell Haffenden 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Works by the Author of ‘‘Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H, G. Kingston’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 

133 Peter the Whaler 10 

761 Will Weatherhelm 28 

763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 

Merry 20 

Vernon Lee’s Works. 

399 Miss Brow'n .'U 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 
Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The 
Prince of the 100 Soups. Edit- 
ed by Vernon Lee 20 

Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Mary Llnskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. 20 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton’s Works. 

122 lone Stewart 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark 10 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 2t 

664 Rory O’More 20 


POCKET EDITION. 


Til 


Sir E. Bulwer Eytton’s Works. 

40 The LastDavs of Pompeii ^ 

83 A Stranjje Story ^ 

90 Ernest Maltravers 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 

ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice: or, The Mysteries. (ASe- 

quel to “Ernest Maltravers”) ^ 
720 Paul Clifford 20 

George Macdonald’s Works. 

282 Donal Grant ^ 

325 The Portent 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women ^ 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine ^ 

E. Marlitt’s Works. 

6.52 The Lady with the Rubies. . • • • 20 
858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret 

Florence Marryat’s Works, 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

^ ^ 

208 The Ghost' of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories..^ W 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses.... 10 
444 The Heart of Jane Warner. . 

449 Peeress and Player 

689 The Heir Presumptive ^o 

825 The Master Passion ^ 

860 Her Lord and Master ^ 

861 My Sister the Actress ^o 

863 “ My Own Child.” 20 

.Q£i4 ‘Nr/% Tnt.AntinilS. ’ 

20 


Justin McCarthy’s Works. 

121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola — 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880-1885 ^ 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Ecii^a 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. . 10 
779 Doom 1 An Atlantic Episode. , 

Mrs, Alex, McVeigh Miller’s 
W orks. 

The Girls’ 


10 


10 


The 


864 ” No Intentions, 

865 Written in Fire. . . , , 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband... 20 

867 The Girls of Feversham 20 

868 Petronel 

869 The Poison of Asps. lo 

870 Out of His Reckoning 10 

i72 With Cupid’s Eyes ^ 

873 A Harvest of lid Oats ^ 

877 Facing the Footliglits 2 U 

Captain Marryat’s Works, 

88 The Privateersman ^ 

272 The Little Savage 

Helen B, Mathers’s Works, 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal.... 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye ^ 

438 Found Out 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? lo 

673 Story of a Sin.. 

713 “ Cherry Ripe ^ 

795 Sara’s Sweetheart. TX 

1 The Fashion of this World ^ 

799 lily Lady Green Sleeves 


267 Laurel Vane; or. 

Conspiracy 

268 Ladv Gay’s Pride; 

Miser’s Treasure ^ 

269 T.ancaster’s Choice 2U 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret -so 

Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 30 

539 Silvermead 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls” ^ 

346 Tumbledown Farm lo 

Miss aiulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

lU 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story 20 

David Christie xMurray’s Works. 

.58 By the Gate of the Sea. 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ’ 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold ^0 

674 First Person Singular ^ 

691 Valentine Strange... - <20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

r)0ijic0 •••*•• 

698 A Life's 'Atonement ^ 

7.37 Aunt Rachel 

826 Cynic Fortune -20 

Works by *^.1 v^iK’^hfer 
Ducats and My Daugiiter. 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter... 20 

. W. E. Norris’s Works. 

184 ThirlbyHall ^ 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

.500 Adrian Vidal 20 

824 Her Own Doing 

848 My Friend Jim 

871 A Bachelor’s Blunder 


20 


Laux'euce Oliphant’s Works. 


47 AltioraPeto. 
537 Piccadilly . . . 


20 

10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


Tiii 


Mrs. Olipliant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgra}', 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation — 20 
402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lad 3 ’’ Mary 10 

527 The Davs of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Portrait 10 

687 A Countr 3 ' Gentleman ' 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself 20 
710 The Greatest Heiress in England 20 

827 Effie Ogilvie 20 

8^ The Son of His Father 20 

“ Qaida’s ” Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras.. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel 20 

2^19 Signa. 20 

4;i3 A Rainy June 10 

639 Othmar 20 

671 Don Gesualdo 10 

672 In Maremma. First half 20 

672 In Maremma. Second half 20 

874 A House Party 10 

James Payn’s Works^ 

48 Tliicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward ^ 

343 The Talk of the Town ^ 

577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

823 The Heir of the Ages 20 

Miss Jane Porter’s Works. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half.. 20 
660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half.. 20 
696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon 20 


Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 


428 Z6ro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 10 
477 Affinities 10 

811 The Head Station 20 

Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

173 The Foreigners 20 

3:31 Gerald 20 

Charles Reade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealous}'... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret 10 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 

Mrs. J. 11. Riddell’s Works. 

71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

593 Bema Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

598 “ Corinua.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage ^ 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

Stories 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half ^ 

Adeline Sergeant’s Works. 

257 Be 3 'ond Recall 10 

812 No Saint 20 

Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivan hoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monaster}' ”) 20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. ... 20 

863 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous Ifl 


POCKET EDITION, 


ii 


Sir Walter Scott’s Works 


(CONTINUED'y. 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

S92 Peveril of the Peak 20 

893 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well ^ 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 

William Sime’s Works, 

429 Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawley Smart’s Works, 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

847 Bad to Beat 10 

Frank E. Smedley’s Works, 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life 20 

T, W, Speight’s Works, 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works, 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

832 Kidnapped 20 

855 The Dynamiter 20 

856 New Arabian Nights 20 

Julian Sturgis’s Works, 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

694 John Maidment 20 


Eugene Sue’s Works, 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti... 20 
^0 The Wandering Jew. Part H. . 20 
^1 The Mysteries of Paris. Parti. 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

George Temple’s Works, 


699 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M, Thackeray’s Works, 

27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

870 The Rose and the Ring. Illus- 
trated 10 


Works by the Author of “The 
Two Miss Flemings.” 

637 What’s His Offence? 

780 Rare Pale Margaret 

784 The Two Miss Flemings 

831 Pomegranate Seed 

Annie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him 1 

142 Jenifer 

565 No Medium 

Anthony Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 

147 Rachel Ray 

200 An Old Man’s Love 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. . 

531 The Prime Minister. 2d half... 

621 The Warden 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. . . 

667 The Golden Lion of Granpere.. 

700 Ralph the Heir. 1st half 

700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half 

775 The Three Clerks 

Margaret Veley’s Works, 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 

686 “ For Percival ” 

Jules Verne’s Works, 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

368 The Southern Star ; or, the Dia- 
mond Land . 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part I 

578 Mathias Sandoi'f. Illustrated. 

Part II 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

XU • • • 

659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia ”... 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. First half 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Second half 

833 Ticket No. “ 9672.” First half. . 

L. B. Walford’s Works, 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

^8 Cousins 

658 The History of a Week 

F, Warden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 

248 The House on the Marsh 

286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand.... 

482 A Vagrant Wife 

556 A Prince of Darkness 

820 Doris’s Fortune It 




X 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAHY. 


William Ware’s Works. 

709 Zenobia; or, The Fall of Pal- 
myra, 1st half 20 

709 Zenobia; or, Tiie Fall of Pal- 
myra. 2d half 20 

760 Aurelian; or, Rome in the Third 
Century 20 

E. Werner’s Works. 

827 Raymond’s Atonement 20 

fc40 At a High Price 20 

G.'J. Why te-Mel vine’s Works. 

409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 20 

John Strange Winter’s Works. 
492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. H- 

liistrated 10 

600 Honp-La. Ilhistrated 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons 10 

688 A Man of Honor. Illustrated.. 10 
746 Cavalry Life; or, Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out,. 20 
813 Army Society. Life in a Gar- 
rison Town 10 

818 Pluck 10 

876 Mignou’s Secret 10 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 

8 East Lynne 20 

2.55 The Mystery 20 

217 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitne 3 ’’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 
and Other Tales 10 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

*75 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield.. . . 20 
640 Nuttie’s Father 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. . 20 

666 My Young Alcides: A Faded 

Photograph 20 

739 The Caged Lion 20 

742 Love and Life 20 

783 Chantry House 20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 

First half 20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The 
White and black Ribaumont. 

Second half 20 

i^OO Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 

First half 20 

100 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Second half 20 


Miscellaneous. 

The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 


Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 
The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M, G. 

Wightwick 10 

Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 

Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. Thomas Hughes. .. . 20 
Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy.... 20 
The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

erwick 10 

“For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

The Starling. Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tytler 10 
The Lady of Lyons. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

An Aj)ril Da 3 '. Philippa Prit' 

tie Jephson 10 

More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 10 

The Millionaire 20 

Dita. Lady Margaret Majeudie 10 
The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

A Husband’s Story 10 

John Bull and His Island, Max 
O’Rell 10 


Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James.. 20 
Ladj' Clare : or. The Master of 
the Forges. Georges Ohnet 10 
The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 10 
The Water-Babies, Rev. Chas, 

Kingsley 10 

Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 90 

The Gambler’s Wife ^ 

John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on” 10 


53 

61 

99 

103 

105 

111 

112 

113 

114 

115 

120 

127 

149 

151 

156 

158 

160 

161 

163 

170 

174 

176 

178 

182 

185 

187 

198 

203 

218 

219 

242 

253 

266 

274 

279 

285 

289 


POCKET EDITION. 


xi 


Miscelfaueous— Continued. 


311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

829 The Polish Jew. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann-Chat- 

rian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Betw^een Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminaiy. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edw^ard Garrett. 10 
354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 


355 Tne Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 
365 George Ciiristy; or, The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. Tony 


Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter: or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Caiieton 20 


369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 


phry Ward 10 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 


382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling ! 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid6 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte PYench 20 

889 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” — 10 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. Charles Marvin 10 


458 A Week of Passion ; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 25 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 
483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

author of “ A Golden Bar ’’. . . 10 
485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

504 Curly : An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 10 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord ’’ . . 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 20 

532 Ai’den Court. Barbara Graham 20 

.533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

536 Dissolving Views. Mrs. Andrew 

Lang 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ’’. . . 10 

546 JIrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
rny ns Carr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
Mayne Reid 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 liUcia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needell 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

599 I.ancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn - 10 

628 AVedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

634 Tfae Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 
lon 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 

Cumberland 10 

643 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 
Crayon, Gent. Washington 

Irving 20 

654 “ Us.’’ An Old-fashioned Story. 

Mrs. Molesworth 10 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

668 Half-Way. An Aoglo-French 
Romance 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


Xil 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

669 The Philosophy of Whist, 

William Pole 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
681 A Singer’s Story. May Laffan. 10 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe. 20 

684 Last Days at Apswicli 10 

692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan 20 

705 The Woman I Loved, and tlie 

Woman Who Loved Me. Isa 
Blagden 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. Annie Brad- 

shaw 10 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. Grant 

Allen 20 

718 Unfairly Won. Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, 

Lord Bj'ron 10 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. T. We- 

myss Reid 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

Silvio Pellico 10 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 
min Franklin 10 

735 Until the Day Breaks. Emily 

Spender 20 

738 In the Golden Days. Edna 

Lyall 20 

T48 Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 


750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
T50 An Old Story of My Farming 


Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

Juliana Horatia Ewing 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

7.55 Margery Daw 20 

756 The Strange Adventures of Cap- 
tain Dangerous. A Narrative 
in Plain English. Attempted 
by George Augustus Sala — 20 


757 Love’s Martyr. Laurence Alma 

Tadema 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. Annie Ar- 

mitt 20 

766 No. XIII: or. The Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Mar- 
shall 10 

770 The Castle of Otranto. Hor- 
ace Walpole 10 

773 The Mark of Cain, Andrew 

Lang 10 

774 The Life and Travels of Mungo 

20 

776 P6i e Goriot, Honor6 be Bal- 

zac 20 

777 The Voyages and Travels of 

of Sir John Maundeville, Kt. . 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. B}- the au- 

thor of “My Marriage” 20 

786 EtheFiMildmay’s Follies. Bi' au- 
thor of “Petite’s Romance”. 20 
793 Viviau Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaeonsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Gre}’’. By the Rt, Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli. Earl of 
Beaeonsfield. Second half. . . 20 
801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 
The Good-Natured Man. Oli- 
ver Goldsmith .' 10 

803 Major Frank. A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Tonssaint 20 


807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 29 

809 Witness My Hand. B3’ author 

of “ Lady Gwendolen s Tryst ” 10 

810 The Secret of Her Life. Ed- 


ward Jenkins 20 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

822 A Passion Flower. A Novel 20 

8.52 Under Five Lakes. M. Quad.. 20 
879 The Touchstone of Peril. A 
Novel of Anglo-Indian Life, 
With Scenes During the Mu- 
tiny. By R. E. Forrest 20 


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Persons who wish to purchase the foregoing works in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside 
Library, Pocket Edition, as works published in other libraries are fre- 
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is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edi- 
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The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
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The foregoing works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 

LATEST ISSUES: 


NO, PRICE. 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

854 A Woman’s Error. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne.” 20 

855 The Dynamiter. Robert Louis 

Stevenson and Fanny Van de 
Grift Stevenson 20 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. Mary E. Bryan. 
First half 20 

857 Kildee: or, The Sphinx of the 

Red House. Mary E. Brj-an. 
Second half 20 

858 Old IMa’m’selle’s Secret. By E 

Marlitt '. 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The 
Prince of the 100 Soups. Ed- 
ited by Vernon Lee 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

Duchess.” Betty’s Visions. 

By Rhoda Broughton 10 

863 “ I\l'y Owti Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

864 “No Intentions.” Bj' Florence 

Manyat 20 

865 Written in I'ire. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; By 

Florence IMarryat 20 

867 The Girls of Feversham. By 

Florence IMarryat 20 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 20 

809 The Poison of Asps. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

870 Out of -His Reckoning. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

871 A Bachelor’s Blunder, By W. 

E. Norris 20 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

873 A Harvest of Wild Oats. By 


874 A House Party. By “Ouida” 10 

875 Lady Vahvorth’s Diamonds. By 

“ The Duchess ” 20 

876 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

878 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 10 


NO. PRICE. 

879 The Touchstone of Peril. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

880 The Son of His Father. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 

don 20 

882 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

Besant 20 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. For- 

• 20 

884 A Voyage to the Cape. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part 1 20 

885 Les Misdrables, Victor Hugo. 
Part II 20 

885 Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part III 20 

886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 

Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 20 

887 A Modern Telemachus. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas. 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

891 VeraNevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett 
Cameron 20 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 

Victory. Robert Buchanan. 10 

893 Love’s Conflict, By Plorence 

Marryat, First half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second half 20 

894 Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

895 A Star and a Heart. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 10 

896 The Guilty River. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

897 Ange. By Florence IMarryat. . . 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia 

and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray. Romeo and 
Juliet : A Tale of Two Young 
Fools, by William Black 20 

899 A Little Stepson. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

900 By Woman’s Wit. By Mrs. Al- 

20 

904 The Holy Rose. By Waiter Be- 
sant 10 

906 The World Went Very Well 
Then. By Walter Besant — 20 


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are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
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